Unknown, Knowns
by Waltz-of-the-Dead
Summary: That night didn't end with one kiss but spun on in the fading light of the fire. Two lovers draped in darkness sipping laugher and pleasure from each other, and finally falling asleep in a tangle of limbs on the floor.
1. Memories and Moonlight

Wrap me in a bolt of lightening

And send me on my smiling

Maybe this is the way I should go

Straight into the mouth of the unknown

Ed slowly ran his thumb along the silver edge of the dog tag that dangled from his fingers. Across the cruel curves of Gin's real name, over the ridges of his blood type, across the jagged numbers of his birthday, and around the harsh angles of his regiment number.

Bitter grief had already burned its searing trail across his heart, leaving a constant agonizing ache that made him clench his teeth every time he drew in a deep breath. It drowned the pain of his bullet wound, to nothing but a dull throb, and sometimes forced him to scream just for the savage joy of hearing his own voice filling the emptiness and silence that Gin had left behind.

Bitter grief had already burned its searing trail across his heart, leaving a constant agonizing ache that made him clench his teeth every time he drew in a deep breath. It drowned the pain of his bullet wound, to nothing but a dull throb, and sometimes forced him to scream just for the savage joy of hearing his own voice filling the emptiness and silence that Gin had left behind.

"Why…why would you ever leave me…when you promised you wouldn't,"

A memory blazed across his mind so vividly that he almost choked.

_Gin was standing beside him a sniper rifle slung over one shoulder a half smoked cigarette dangling from his lips the smoke wreathing his face. Stripped to the waist his dog tags caught the searing rays of the sun as it sank against the sands. He took a long drag from his cigarette and grinned letting the smoke wisp from between his teeth, _

"_Don' worry bout a fuckin thing man, you know I got your back, I'll neva leave ya…promise"_

Ed grit his teeth,

Liar…mother fuckin filthy liar….

Against his will tears of fury spilled from his eyes, so heavy with confusion, and anguish that when they fell they did not grace his face but spattered against the marble floor. He sat down heavily on the edge of his bed and slumped forward and ran his hands down his face smearing blood from his forehead down to his jaw.

The memories that he had of the night he had been shot were distorted, blurred from two bullets in the chest. Randomly jagged pieces of what happened would suddenly strike him like bolts of lightning, and with such force that he wouldn't be able to breathe.

The first time it had happened he had jerked so hard that he pulled the I.V. and heart monitoring patches off his body causing the machines to crash. Amidst the accidental chaos that ensued; a memory vibrate and lucent had burst across his vision with an unforgiving fury.

_Gin had his arms wrapped loosely around his neck pressing kisses to his mouth…_

Over the following week's snatches of what happened whirled across his weary conscious. Gun shots, shattered glass, moonlight spilling onto Gin' face, screaming, soft kisses against his throat, and against his lips.

But he couldn't make sense of it; the threads of his memory were tangled in a mess of blood and anarchy. He couldn't forget either; the healing wounds in his chest were a constant reminder that it all hadn't been a hideous nightmare. .

The day when he had awoken alone, in a foreign bed, he immediately had become aware of how torturous it was when he drew in a breath, and the whirs and beeps of the machines monitoring his life support had assaulted his hearing, and his mouth was filled with the acrid taste old blood.

Green eyes glazed from morphine had flicked around the room with the agonizing fearful swiftness of the wounded. They had settled of the small gleam of silver that sparked though the crypt like gloom.

Swallowing back the panic that swelled from his aching chest he reached for it his fingers closing around cool metal. Gins name glimmered before his eyes softly clinking against the tag engrave with his own name.

That was all Gin had granted him…

That was all Gin left him…had left of him….

Blood dribbled from his fingers, spattering against cold marble floor their essence mixing with his tears. He closed his eyes against his grief, and drew in a heaving breath, wincing at the pain that pitched against his chest.

When Ed had staggered up to his room after being released from Lake Side Hospital he had found that the room he had shared with Gin had been stripped of the blonde's belongings. Everything had been taken, even the ragged blood stained Armani suit that had been carelessly shoved into the back of the closet. Everything…it was as if Gin had never existed, there had been nothing left.

Ed could tell that all of this had been deliberate; none of his belongings had been touched. He also knew that his grandfather had nothing to with it, that old fucker would not have been this subtle of affectionate. Who ever had been in his room had been professional, they knew what they were looking for and they knew what to not lay their hands on.

Sighing Ed leaned down and snatched the tags off the floor; crimson tainted, they flared with the fires of the setting sun. For a moment he contemplated throwing them away, and just like all the other times dismissed the idea. Ed chewed on his lower lip, absent mindedly threading the chain through his tapered fingers.

His gaze flickered across the only physical thing that had bound him to Gin, as a brother in arms, and now a final gift form a lover. He began to slowly trace Gin's name again, further smearing the dull silver with gleaming blood. His fingers slid around the back, brushing against a surface that had been worn smooth from constantly being pressed against Gin's chest.

On a whim he turned the tag over running a bloodied thumb across the ashen back. He watched as his blood blurred his distorted reflection, it beaded across the silver like droplets of ruby tainted water. He tipped the pendant forward and watched as his blood trickled into shallow grooves that had been etched into tarnished metal.

The heir blinked and tilted his head, watching as the vague, elegant letters of ICA appeared; blood washed against the gilded tag, and beneath this, faint indentations of a bar code glistened to sight.

Ed licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry he had seen those letters before, but he never thought that it meant anything, it was just a chimerical name meant to intimidate. It was something that mob bosses whispered in the smoky rooms of their manors to terrify their men into being flawless in carrying out orders. It was a menacing threat hissed by the rich elite to frighten enemies when a deal went awry and someone important was accidently killed.

He also knew that ICA was a constant vexation for his grandfather; Ed also was aware that many of Wuncler's men had been found expertly sniped, with bullet holes between their eyes, or their throats sliced open. These were grisly warnings that the senior Wuncler was encroaching on another's territory, or had let his tongue slip.

Ed felt a cold shiver snap against his spine, and a memory lucid and horribly vivid crawled from the back of his mind and dug its fetid fingers into his conscious.

_Seething rain trickled down French windows that arched against the torrid heavens, the icy tears of angels, baptismal, and consuming prisons to the fire that danced across the sky. Lightening sparked a silver flare that briefly turned their wet surfaces into smoky, haunting mirrors. In these hazy, distorted reflections was the pale face of a young man. _

_Dressed in a tailored black suit, he stood rigid against the roar of thunder, his eyes a vivid elixir green made even more vibrant by unshed tears. His face was handsome, but was scared by the harsh kisses of death, and grief. He drew in a breath that rattled in his chest and deafened his ears, drowning out the quiescent whispering of the swath of people draped in black, in the main room behind him._

_The repugnant fragrance of flowers curled around his body, the sweet embrace of lingering death. It caused a shutter to pitch through him and he clenched his teeth against the anguish, tears spilling from his eyes. _

_He softly wept. _

_The foundation of his very life crumbled as lightening flared and cast back his shadow. Everything was unraveled, the figure that he was to become, the man that he had been died when his parents had drawn their last breath. _

_He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the window allowing the fury of the storm to wash over him. Grief spun through him like gossamer wrapping around his throat threatening to consume him. Time trickled by on the ancient grandfather clock that stood like a featureless guardian beside the door way._

_When the hour softly began to peal against the darkness and rain did he quiet his bitter tears and straighten his back. He turned back to the door and paused, against the sloe mourners, was the figure of man he had never seen. _

_He was dressed in a sable colored suit that was tailored to fit the curves of his lithe body. The white silk of his under shirt stood out in harsh contrast to his ebony jacket, a tie the color of fresh blood was fastened at his throat and stopped just above the silver of his belt buckle. His features were angular, aristocratic, and savage. He had hair the color of tarnished silver that held back from his face. He was staring at Ed with eyes that were the deadly color of gun metal. Gazing at him with such a ferocious intensity that it rivaled the storm that raged outside._

_He graced the heir with a brief, mocking smile, one that tore though the sorrow thick air like a bullet. His gaze still locked with Ed's he nonchalantly slid his hand into the inside of his jacket. Time unraveled to a dull throb and then ground to an unsteady halt, Ed's breath stalled in his throat. There was no possible way that fucker had managed to sneak a gun in, there were far too many guards checking. _

_In on swift motion the man's hand fell free of his coat his fingers held in the parody of a gun, his thumb twitched down like a mock hammer falling against the firing pin. Ed felt as if he had been backhanded across the face, fury and revulsion collided in the pit of his stomach and he felt his lips curl away from his teeth in a snarl of silent rage. He began to move forward his ire smoldering through his veins, intent on ripping that jeering grin off the man's face. _

_He softly cursed when his view was blocked as a one of his grandfathers patrons passed across the threshold of the door, when the room once again came into view the man was gone; leaving behind a whisper of his vexatious grin._

_Ed was motionless staring at the place the man had been standing. He could still feel those gray eyes burning into him, taunting him, jeering at him. He had never seen that man before and he was sure that his Grandfather had never laid eyes on him either. Silently he stepped into the room, gracefully slipping between people, hardly hearing the gentle words of solace that spilled from meaningless rich mouths._

_As he passed through the room he flicked his gaze to the many elite guards that casually stood beside doorways. They seemed to meld with the antique wood in the walls, silent watchers, and deadly killers. There were many here who had enemies whose influences stretched over the vast oceans. Wuncler Sr. was not ignorant of this; he himself was on the black lists of many wealthy foreign powers, and so he surrounded himself with assassins dressed in Armani suits._

_Ed moved past them, his presence acknowledged with a brief nod. He had to get away from all these empty condolences, the putrid smell of expensive flowers, the merciless eyes of the guards, the emptiness of the manor, an abyss that could never be filled with the translucent essence of the wealthy. He rounded the corner into the main atrium, and brushed past the men guarding the main stair case to the upper floors._

_The gold banisters glinting in the somber amber light of the wall sconces that lined the wall, their gleaming surfaces reflecting Ed's scowling face. The image of those harsh, severe features were burned in his memory, the flare malice, as those gunmetal gray eyes stared at him, a killers gaze. When he reached the top he could hear the faint echo of the harsh tone of his grandfather's voice. It was curling down the hallway like cigar smoke, mingling with the darkness before slipping of f into the night._

_Wuncler I office was down the hallway from the staircase a room of grandeur that was attached to the older business man's bedroom. It was a thing of elegance and refined beauty, French windows stretched from the marble floor to the ceiling that offered a view of the well manicured estates stretched behind the manor. The walls were adorned in painting that had made the voyage across the sea from England to the American before the blood of patriots had been spilled to liberate the fledgling country. _

_The floors were covered in thick Turkish rugs fringed in gold, pushed against the far wall next to the fire place was an antique mahogany desk. Scattered about its centuries old surface were silver pens, crystal bottles filled with ink, and an ashtray with a half smoked cigar resting against the rim. The flawless, polished surface of the desk had reflected the faces Wuncler men lost to the dusky realms of the past and now cast in its gleaming surface was the face of Edward Wuncler the I. _

_There was a fire place against the far wall, the mantle lined with many expensive liquors, and above the sparkling bottles was a portrait of the first Wuncler to set foot on American soil, his severe features the only witness to the many bloody deals that were scattered throughout the Wuncler's family history… and they all began with him. _

_Wuncler's office was a place where blood payment crossed hands and where contracts containing names of those soon to be dead were signed. Now it was occupied by Wuncler sitting behind his desk and before him were four others, faces cast in shadow, their chairs situated in an arch before the seething billionaire, and behind them hidden in the darkness were five armed elite. _

"_What I can't seem to understand is how…_

_He tapped his insignia against the ledge of his desk, _

"_Is how this became so fucking inexplicably messy…"_

_This was a question that required silence and so the room remained infuriatingly quiet. When spoke again his tone barely contained his simmering rage,_

"_I was informed…no I was assured that this agency could far surpass the efforts of ICA."_

_There was the sound of fabric rustling against leather as a few of those seated before hi shifted against his scathing words. _

_Wuncler paused, his fury finally breaking loose and slammed his fist down on his desk causing the many pens and crystal ink bottles spread across its surface to rattle._

"_But apparently those words are a mother fucking lie!"_

_Ed paused is hand resting on the scrolled door knob of Wuncler's office as his grandfathers livid voice reached his ears. Slowly he opened the ornate door just enough so the light of the fire spilled across his feet and face._

"_It couldn't be helped Wuncler, ICA was already there when our men arrived. They had already preformed half the hit that you ordered….,"_

_This was spoken by a man with a light, refined English accent his response was advocated by another,_

"_He is right sir, ICA had already spilled blood, but the hit had been messy half the officers in Paris were at the Budapest Hotel when our man arrived."_

"_He is right, they had found a mob boss floating dead in the bloody pool, and an Italian Don was found shot in his shower,"_

"_It was too late to call off our hit…,"_

_Wuncler's soft voice interrupted him,_

"_And so, in a show of brilliance, you went ahead with it anyway? Worthless god-damned excuses, the orders were clear and so was the fucking hit, I paid your worthless agency twice as much as ICA asks and your inefficiency is staggering. A one eyed, blind gunman would have served me better then the trifling carcasses you surround yourself with and have the NERVE to say they are elite."_

_He stood from his desk and began walking toward the door picking up his smoldering cigar as he went; he made a swift motion with his fingers almost absentmindedly. In an instant his guard had stepped forward the dull metal of their guns gleaming in the weak light. _

"_You see gentleman…the thing is that ICA can improvise, even if one of their men fucks up. They can still operate a clean hit, more or less exactly following the orders that were given to them. Fiber wire may have to be exchanged for a bullet through the skull, or a syringe full of poison to the neck but they manage to get the job done without causing their client unnecessary grief…and more importantly wasting their money. I have buried two bodies today that I shouldn't have…."_

_He reached into the inside of his jacket and a lighter flashed in his grip he snapped the top open and relit the seething end of his cigar. He took a long drag, smoke slipping from his mouth as he continued talking._

"_However gentlemen, I can assure you that tonight I will bury four more, and these will be necessary,"_

_There was the sound of four bullets, stripped of their death ring slicing though the air, and slamming into skulls then nothing except the crackle of the fire. Wuncler exhaled a cloud of acrid smoke,_

"_Make sure they don't bleed all over the damned rugs when you move them," _

_Ed felt his breath slip between his teeth at the absurdity he just witnessed. His brain reeled for a moment trying to grasp what he had just heard and then the door was being pushed open. He staggered back flinging himself into the meager darkness, hoping that it would hide him. _

_Soft light flooded the hallway and Wuncler stepped into the hallway, a guard trailing him. _

"_Send a message for me Number 48, I want the tongues of all those lying jerk off's sent to their society, perhaps it will teach them not to waste the time of a Wuncler."_

Ed let the memory trail away, fighting down the nausea that threatened to over take him. That was when he learned the trade of his family, what they did to keep absolute power from slipping through their fingers and that was by staining their hands with blood.

He sighed and glanced at the dog tag idly turning over the piece of metal so that Gin's name was visible again blood streaked in the moonlight.

_(Finally chapter one is completed *dances*)_


	2. Memories and Mansions

Hello all I know that it has been months since I last wrote. School, politics, rallies, and protests have been captured most of my time. However, I have managed to write another chapter. I don't own the Boondocks, or any of the characters mentioned in this story, I also do not claim any rights to Hitman. I do however own William Edward Wuncler, he is of my own creation as are the organizations known Silentiumbari, and Brotherhood of the Creed is also mine.

Chapter One Part One of Two: Memories and Masquerades 

And if I only could

Make a deal with God

And get Him to swap our places

If I only could….

~Placebo/ Running Up That Hill

Night creatures calling

The dead start to walk in their masquerade

~ Michael Jackson/ Thriller

Ed Wuncler Sr. stood with back to the fires of the setting sun letting the warmth of the dying day seeping into his back soothing the healing bullet wound that had been inflicted dangerously close to his spine. An etched glass brining with aged bourbon was balanced between his fingers, the crystal capturing the final glowing breath of the day as it spun seething crimson into the pale silver of night.

Against the fading evening, Massenet's Elegie softly played, the gentle symphony swirling around Wuncler's prone form. The beauty of the music and splendor of the sunset was lost to the older man, his attention snared by a more malevolent sight. The millionaire was staring at the portrait of his predecessor, his pitiless gray eyes matching the cruel gaze of his ancestor. Set in a gilded, baroque frame, the portrait of his forefather was an imposing sight. Dressed a black suit that was form fitting he sat, reclining on an ornate cathedra with an elegantly carved back that curled around his shoulders and head like the sinister throne of a baron of death and blood.

He had eyes that were the hue of a tempests fury alight with depraved fires of malice and greed. His features were handsome in the cruel way of most aristocrats, akin to the faces carved into marble by the skilled hands of the Greeks. Long obsidian hair brushed his shoulders, framing his face and painting his high cheeks bones with shadow. His long tapered fingers were clasped over the silver head of a walking cane, an insignia ring glistening on one finger, the same ring that adorned Wuncler's own hand and had ruthlessly branded Gin's shoulder.

He had come to the Americas as Edward Jack Lothair, but as time had crept onward he had bestowed upon himself a new name, William Edward Wuncler. Along with this new title he also claimed leadership over some of the most grisly gangs that had roamed the gore spattered cobbled streets of New York in the late 1800's. With his savage nature William had ripped and torn at the delicate flesh of history making his own, distinct scar in time. His reputation was one of cruelty and ruthless blood thirst; he delighted in slitting throats, gleefully spilled blood, and had insultingly, hilariously, made a profit of it.

He soon became a skilled merchant of blood, and death. Just as he had in London under the guise of Jack the Ripper. But unlike in poverty disease riddled streets of his fog shrouded city the ones in American were indeed paved with gold. Gold cloaked in the guise of consuming greed, bloody revenge, and loathing hate. He drank in the sorrows and vices of others, twining their sins around their own throats until they choked on their own evil.

This merciless, untiring pursuit of power and control made William rise above the blood drenched empire of the Italian Mob. And while the Sicilians seemed to cling to their creed of not spilling the blood of the innocent, Williams had no testaments of restraint or mercy, no one was spared. Collateral damage meant little to him.

Officials would find entire families days after they had been slaughtered, their broken corpses draped forward in their dining room chairs. Slumped down face first in festering plates of food, their throats open in bloody smiles. This method of killing was William's favorite way of commissioning a message to his rivals. His savagery and lack of concern for human life became legend, not even children were exempt from his killing appetite.

When there was a lull in business William devised a grotesque ways to make profits. During these times entire families would disappear from the homes their bodies later sold to doctors from a modest sum saving good surgeons from the tedious task of having to dig up their own cadavers in which to practice new techniques.

By the end of a decade William had gracefully spun death into a highly profitable business and in his madness of seizing power resurrected the ancient bones of a deadly society, the Silenti**umbari.**** An organization that had been left shackled to rot in dark realms of history by the zealous Catholic Church, a creation that had been consigned to waste away in oblivion. William had loosened those chains, pulled the order from its fetid grave and bestowed a spark of life.

The moldering skeleton of the Silentiumbari was sculpted into William's own sadistic inception. He created a new deadly breed of hitmen, the likes of which that had been unseen since the Brotherhood of the Creed during the Crusades. These men were not scrapings and rakings of the streets, but elite assassins, who were skilled cunning killers, pitiless and yearned for blood as much as their patriarch William. With the Silentiumbari revived William Edward Wuncler became a feared and respected man, and so did his family.

Until ICA.

Wuncler unconsciously clenched his jaw, wincing as the slight movement caused the flesh of the long jagged gash that ran from the corner of his eye, across his cheek, and down his throat to painfully stretch. He tightened his grip on the glass of bourbon until he heard the crystal whine in protest.

ICA had only been a minor complication when William had been alive and even when he was piteously called to the grave by the blood stained hands of his own son ICA was still a forgettable force.

But as the threads of time spun cruelly onward the rules of the game became twisted with the evolution of better technology, guns became as silent and lethal as deaths whisper, a slit throat was exchanged for fatal, bloodless fiber wire, and syringes full of deadly poisons lined the suits of hitmen instead of cigars.

By the time Wuncler was made patriarch ICA was a near unstoppable power; a cunning adversary that had wrapped its lithe, poison fingers around the throat of his blood empire and was slowly choking the life away. His traitor son had been worthless only causing the other agency to tighten its killing grip on his beloved agency. Wuncler felt his lips draw back in a loathsome sneer disregarding the blood that began to trickle down the side of his neck as the healing wound on his throat was split open. That inferior, treasonous fuck and his whore wife had brought the Silentiumbari to its knees. ICA was slowly dragging the Silentiumbari back to its empty crypt that William had opened all those decades ago.

The death of his son had done very little to ease the tensions between the organizations. Edward the II had always been weak, lacking the rapacious fury that had surged wild and seething through the veins of his predecessors. He had been far too merciful with his hits, and lenient with clients, he was never blood thirsty, malicious or cruel. However, Wuncler had to concede that when his son did accept a contract he was thorough, swift, and deadly. But those were few and far between, Edward had been more interested in investing money, politics and economics. He had told his father that he had wanted to cut all threads with the old Wuncler name and create a business and that was not drenched in blood to earn his money without slitting throats and putting bullets through skulls.

It wasn't a great lose to Wuncler when he and his wife had tragically died, for in their death they had left him a precious gift, their untainted son Edward the III. But unfortunately the insolent whelp had grown up to be just as useless as his fucking father!

Consumed by grief over the loss over both his parents, his grandson had plunged into an abyss of alcohol, narcotics, and sex. His mild temperament, a trait that he shared with his father became twisted with hate and rage. As he grew older Edward had became the son that Wuncler had craved. If only he would allow his grandfather to sculpt him into a killer, to make him more than an heir to a vast fortune and powerful name. Wuncler yearned to make him an assassin, feared for his skills in shaking hands with death and devil, dealing in blood money instead of making deals with businessmen in expensive suits. He could have been Wuncler's saving grace, his arch angel; his messenger of death, the final bullet in ICA's accursed heart.

But he was stubborn and his malice toward the other man smothered any emotions of affection that could have sprung between the two. In a way Ed's heartless hatred toward him sparked a sort of malevolent pride. But it was more of a perpetual annoyance then a blessing, having his whims constantly disobeyed and thrown back his face, forced to deal with Edward's mischief and waste money on his escapades.

But then a small ray of light had trickled into the darkness of the pit that the Silentiumbari had been forced to take refuge and cower in. Gin….ah Gin had just been so…fucking perfect. The second pride of ICA, a young man who had been a novice to their greatest assassin. A taker of lives who bore no name and had been born from the essence of killers, created for one purpose and that was to spill blood. Wuncler knew very little about this killer, only the number which they bestowed upon him, had branded upon him, Number 47.

Many agencies believed him to be a myth, a terrible name whispered in the dark as a wanton threat. But Wuncler knew different, he had briefly seen the hitman and had even spoken to him with blood heavy words. That was before Number 47 left ICA, and disappeared into the shrouds of time, leaving nothing in his wake…except an apprentice.

Gin had been young when Number 47 had abandoned the agency, still inexperienced and awkward in the ways of killing. Which was why he fascinated Wuncler, it was always a pleasure to see mistakes made in his past killings neatly fixed and not repeated. The millionaire had tracked the young man through all his hits and had even offered him some contracts during his career.

Over time Gin had gained his own number, and had claimed his own place in the bloody history of ICA. His ruthless reputation quickly spreading through both agencies that the young hitman was following the blood spattered legacy of his antecessor.

When Ed had returned from Iraq miraculously alive and unscathed with the blonde at his side Wuncler knew that mistress fortune was smiling upon him again.

It was a shame that everything had veered so far out of control; he had been so close to infiltrating ICA with their own assassin that he had almost felt their blood running across his hands. Now Gin was gone, not even his informants knew where the blonde had went, and he was left again with a useless, wounded grandson.

Night had descended differently on Ed, while his grandfather had been reminiscing on the far flung past of his predecessors and cursing his son and grandson in the dim light of his office. Darkness had embraced the heir, its fingers threaded with starlight that caught the bloodstained silver that rested in Ed palm. Even though the light had long faded and had been swallowed by the night, the redhead could still clearly see the numbers delicately etched into the back of the dog tag as if they were afire.

0429973546 blazed in the darkness, searing across Ed's vision. Beneath this was an ambigram of ICA the letters delicately entwined with Gins initials. Forever connecting him to the agency, binding him in not only in the blood of those he had killed but also in name.

Ed sighed bracing his hands against his knees and wearily got to his feet absentmindedly slipping the chain over his head tucking the bloody pendent into his shirt. He wandered out into the moonlit washed hallway, silently making his way down stairs to the newly repaired atrium. Intent on seeking some solace, he couldn't stand to be in this room that had been so carefully stripped of Gin's existence any longer. As he walked he unconsciously stepped with his hip pressed to the far side of the wall staying away from the deeper shadows, his eyes constantly roving the gloom making sure nothing stirred in their seemingly abysmal depths.

His breath began to quicken as he neared the main stair case and he hesitated at the head of the steps echoes of the night he had been shot vividly tore across his mind leaving in its wake sharp talons of agonizing pain that gouged into in his chest.

His legs buckled and he fell forward on his knees, a broken soul seeking redemption and relief. He curled his fingers around the ornamentation of the iron banister the flesh of his fingers digging into the jagged curves and points of the sculpted metal. Teeth clenched, he shut his eyes tightly as a wave nausea crashed against him almost sending him pitching down the stairs. He stayed that way for a long moment swaying against the pain, breathing shallowly, bile burning at the back of his throat. A low moan crawled up his throat and out his mouth and he gasped as a new memory lurched against him.

_A picture of his parents lay shattered at his feet, the glass twinkling in the cold fire of the stars that trickled in from the French windows. His grandfather was standing in front of him a jeering smirk splitting across his face his voice rising with the smoke that trailed from his cigar. _

"_Careful Edward, or you may end up as mangled and broken as your parents, but perhaps that would blessing because then I would rid of you"_

_Gin had been standing at the head of the stairs, his newly braided hair pulled back from his face. His features twisted in anger and uncertainty his hand resting inside his jacket pocket. Even in the gloom of the evening Ed had seen the malicious dull gleam of a gun handle._

_His own voice suddenly echoed in his skull, low and malicious._

"_You fucking bastard,"_

Then it was over, the vision swept away into the shadowed recessed of his consciousness finding its appropriate place in his distorted past. Slowly the pain receded leaving the heir trembling and sobbing for breath, sweat trickling down his face and into his gasping mouth.

These visions had begun in the hospital moments after he found Gin's dog tag on his bedside table. They came swiftly and without mercy jolting him into that horrid night when the air with thick with smoke and the burning stench of blood. They pitched and heaved against his dreams twisting them into nightmares full of agony and death. But as he began to heal, his memory began to shed the haze of being injured and the painful incidents would happen less and less. Now they only embraced him when he actually stood in or near the atrium.

Ed drew in a shaken breath, releasing his hold on the curve of iron wincing as the sharp edges were withdrawn from the soft flesh of his palm. The metal glistening wetly with blood in the moonlight, and the redhead could feel it trickling down his wrist. He slowly stood leaning heavily against the railing, not wanting to tumble down the stairs.

As he descended the newly hewn marble steps his eyes automatically traveled to the door of his grandfather's office. The freshly carved oaken door was adorned with a security device was slightly ajar and pale light was cascading onto the gleaming marble floor.

Ed paused momentarily halting just before his feet touched the soft glow spilling out across the atrium. He glanced inside and found the room empty, resisting the malicious urge to slam the door shut he continued across the atrium.

He slipped into the vast gloomy dining room, skillfully weaving his way around antique furniture, hardly paying attention where his feet fell. Crystal glasses and china plates dully glimmered in the darkness alight with a soft glow the spun down from the hidden lighting the arched across the frescoed ceiling. The tableware and silver were hardly ever used but kept free of dust and decay by servants who polished and swept away traces of disuse every day.

This room was one of Ed's favorites, one of the few rooms that his mother had decorated while she lived her, and one of the few that his grandfather had kept the same after she died. It had a delicate Baroque theme, elegant and beautiful threaded with hidden details that seemed to give it an ethereal aura. It looked like a room out of a Victorian mansion, dark antique floors that were polished to a mirror like sheen reflected portraits that were adorned with medieval forests cast into the magical hour of twilight and shadow, knights knelt before thrones their swords resting at the feet of their lords, majestic castles with soaring parapets dusted with snow and protected by gargoyles with mountains reining over them in the background.

French windows rose from the floors and arched to the ceiling, their stained glass covered by thick crimson hued satin curtains. Elegantly carved furniture that had once adorned the dining room of the great Elizabethan Montacute House.

Another memory curled against his mind, gentle and pleasant, and the redhead found himself smiling. The darkness of the night dissipated and a vision unbound from the haze of agony that gripped him when he remembered the night he was wounded stole upon him. A specter of himself torn away from the dust of time slipped across sight. Ed blinked he was young again ignorant to the ruthless ways of the world and the wicked touch of death had not yet scarred his features. The satin curtains were open and tied back by thick golden cords the evening twilight awash with from a recent rain storm flooded though the windows. He parents were seated at the vast dining table gently laughing and conversing with each other as they ate their dinner.

Ed sat astride his father's lap eating from his sire's plate sometimes tilting his head back and gazing up at his father as he took a drink from his crystal glass. When he wasn't sharing his father's food he would gently run fingers along the expensive silver buttons on his father's shirt, or lean back against his father's chest and feel his strong heart beat against the back of his ribcage. But most of the time he would peer up into his father's tempest gray eyes as he softly spoke with his mother.

Like all children he had believed that his parents were immortal, they were his first memories, a soothing constant, something that had been before his time. And he knew that moments such as those would last forever.

How foolish are the thoughts of the young.

The crystal goblets and china had adorned the table then as they did now gently and had gently rung with the voices of his parents as they laughed and ate together. Now beautiful glasses were dead of all sound, even the maid that kept them clean never gently hummed or sang. Ed reached out and ran his finger around the rim of one of the elegant glasses listening to ethereal tone it created, blinking back tears as the sound hung in the air faded then died…just like his parents.

He withdrew his fingers from the edge of crystal and the memory dissolved leaving him in the dark with unshed tears and an aching chest. Hastily wiping his eyes he turned his back to the deserted dining room and walked to one of the curtained windows. Without pausing he drew back the satin to revel a concealed hallway and slipped inside.

The air was stagnant here; and the smell of dust and years of abandon was prevalent. This was the passage his old room and living quarters that his parents shared. After they died Wuncler had installed the curtains over the entrance to hallway hiding this part of the house away like some filthy secret. No one knew about this concealed wing of the house besides Ed…and Gin.

The heir had been slightly hesitant to take Gin to see where his parents had once lived, to let him look upon their belongings, and see their portrait. He was very covetous of his parent's belongings, and had learned long ago not to have anything they once owned in plain sight or in any part of the house.

They would disappear, or were destroyed left for him to find, mangled, shattered, or ripped to pieces. After these incidents he would often get scathing, pitiless taunts from his Grandfather, cursing him for his weakness, for bringing rubbish like photos of his parents wedding day, too "decent" parts of the manor. Edwards had lost many precious treasures to Wuncler's cruel hands this way and in his youth had often wept bitterly over their loss. But in a brief amount of time that grief had twisted into to a simmering hatred toward his patriarch one the brimmed on being murderous.

So he had left what there was left of his former life in the darkness on the abandoned wing of the house, only venturing there at night, away from the prying eyes of servants and the traitorous gaze of his grandfathers body guard.

Dust lay thick on the wooden floor of the passage, old foots prints he had left behind on countless visits marred the grimy breath of time. A doorway appeared on his right the scrolled doorknob tarnished and dim. He rested his hand on the filthy handle, dust drifting to floor as he turned it and went inside.

Unlike the atmosphere in the hallway the air here was fresher, free of the filth that had captured passage outside. The wooden floors were polished to sheen and reflected the star light that poured in from a curtained window. Tapestry runs covered the floors the fringe brushed free and clean of any debris. A huge four poster bed loomed to his right, the comforter and pillows immaculately straight. All the furniture in the room was oiled and polished; every small decoration from the crystal decanter to the music box on the bed side table was free of dust.

Ed toed off his shoes and left them by the door, he walked to the wall that was facing the bed. A portrait of his parents hung there along and the bottom of the gilded frame an exquisite liquor cabinet had been placed.

The picture of his parents has been painted with will the skill that only a master artist can accomplish and set in a scrolled Baroquean frame. His mother and father gazed solely out of the canvas at him their expression soft and pure. His father had been bestowed the name Edward like his sire before him, an ancestral name which he had honored giving to his son. His mother had been name Siena because of her fiery red hair. A woman who had been truly beautiful in that frighteningly alluring way which made men forget their names and how to speak properly.

In the portrait she was sitting on a piano bench he feet tucked behind the scrolled legs. Her hair been portrayed as seething Irish flame and spilled in ringlets of fire down her neck and shoulders its burgundy hue giving accent to her pale skin. The deep blue dress she had been wearing brought out the silver threaded sapphire hue of her eyes which seemed to hold within them a gentleness and bright intelligence. Ed shared her hair color, high cheek bones and fiery temperament.

Beside her stood his father, elegantly handsome, his features sharper, crueler and more aristocratic then his mothers. His eyes were an elixir green, and held within their emerald depths a cunning spark that seemed to bleed away into amusement. Edward had inherited those laughing eyes, and his father's humor which made his tongue razor sharp when riled.

An empty crystal decanter glimmered on the marble top of the liquor cabinet sharing the light of the stars with an etched stopper, fastened to this top was a rounded small length of silver that tapered down to a sharp silver point.

When Ed had been a child this stopper would often go missing. He would steal into his parent's room, brace his chest against the liquor cabinet and standing on his tiptoes would reach forward his little hands seeking the pretty trinket.

Once his small fingers would curl around the crystal treasure he would take it and stand in the middle of the room, sunlight spilling around his body and with both hands grasping the silver end thrust it up to light, a child prophet addicted to the magic of the sun. As the golden light hit the etched crystal it would spill colors ranging from molten crimson to twilight blues across the floor and walls.

His mother would always scold him if she caught him doing this, fearing that her son would hurt himself on the potentially lethal point. But he never did, he handled the beloved object with extreme care his hands and fingers always careful. Many years marred with grief and darkness had passed since sun had kissed the silver and shone though the crystal. It now twinkled brightly beneath the portrait of his parents, an old key distant delightful memory.

A sigh escaped his mouth and fell heavy upon the still air. So much had been lost from him, torn from him, leaving gaping bleeding wounds that never seemed to heal. Everything he loved lay in abandoned desolate ruin, and all he had were traces of the past, the crystal top to a decanter, a music box that played moonlight sonata, a worn wedding photo, a pair of blood stained dog tags, and scars from two bullets that had ripped though his body.

He reached out and ran his fingers along the stopper the silver becoming smeared with his finger prints and as the tips of his fingers reached the tapered end he picked it up. It was heavy against his palm and he thoughtfully rolled it back and forth. Then held it up to the starlight, the silver reflected his weary features and the slight movement in the darkness behind him.

Ed remained relaxed using the silver as a mirror, idly watching the figure slink along the wall using the night and shadows to conceal its self. After a few moments he lowered the decanter stopper, letting the point slip between his lose fingers.

He heard the deadly sound of silk sliding across metal as a gun was drawn and he clenched his fingers. He skillfully spun to one side with all the natural grace of an assassin, silver danced wickedly in the moonlight before it slammed into the side of his assailant's neck and dragged the stopper downward. Blood arched against the night, stained with the argent glimmer of the stars as he drew his weapon back ignoring the grotesque gargled scream that shattered the night.

Tearing the stopper from the side of the assassin's neck he stepped forward his fingers wrapping around the back of the hitman blood slick neck. His fingers sank into the ugly gash placed the flat of his palm against the man skin and viciously wretched his neck to one side.

There was a sickening crack and the body shuddered against him before going limp. Rage reared against Edward then, howling through his blood making him clench his teeth.

He needlessly struck out at the dead body driving the stopper into the man neck until blood dripped from his face and ran down his arms and rivulets.

Ed savagely shoved the mangled corpse from him, his mind reeling from adrenaline and the smell of blood. He didn't even flinch when the bedroom door slammed open and Wuncler stepped in flanked by two guards, their guns were drawn. The older man looked relatively calm as the sight of his gore spattered grandson.

He idly glanced at the butchered hitman that lay sprawled in the stained floor and made a small sound of disgust. He turned to the two men beside him,

"I don't give a fuck how you dispose of this filth but I want it out of my house,"

He attention then settled of Ed,

"I see that killing your parents wasn't enough to satisfy ICA's appetite."

(Finally it is done praise the muses and gods on high, it's been what? Three, four months? I'm sorry that it has been so long since I have written on this, but as I promised I haven't let it die. I know there haven't been any intimate scenes in these chapters, but promise in this second there will be. Thanks again for all the reviews)

~K~


	3. Remembrance, Resonance and Resurrection

_It has been a long time since I have felt the weight of the vices that I have born so long fall free of my soul. Those heavy shackles wrought from anguishing grief, and heartless abandonment finally stricken from me. The mask, that façade…the shameless charade that I was, so carefully contrived to shroud and distort this shattered form into obscurity lies splintered at my feet. Now I know what I am, what I am to become, and who so mercilessly slaughtered my parents. May mercy spill from the heavens onto that traitor who can no longer hide from my gaze. I have liberated no longer draped in the guise of a false gansta, of talkin like a nigga. That fool died the night those bullets, as seething as the teeth of hell slammed into my chest and almost ripped my soul from my body. _

_Death loomed over me beckoning me to the darkness of the eternal sleep that I had longed for after my mother and father were taken from me. But there was a silver thread of light, of love that I desperately clung too as the melody of Saint Gabriel's horn rose to crescendo. His face, his voice his body kept me from my paradise, kept my heart beating and imprisoned my soul in my wrecked body. _

_But when I awoke, gasping in pain and teetering on the keen edge of anguish he was gone, leaving me with just an etching of his name across silver. I fell into an obsidian abyss of forlorn memories, of a lover lost to me, of parents robbed from me, of a guardian who denied me. _

_I was resurrected the night I killed for the first time. Truly took a life without a cause, no longer adorned in armor, wielding the sword and shield as warrior for my country, those relics have long ago been shorn from my body and discarded. I experienced what my ancient predecessors must have felt when they slipped their hidden blades between the ribs of their enemies and added another name to their tomes of the dead. Vengeance liberated me, drew me up from the grave from which I had cast myself. I turned my eyes to a new adversary whose hands dripped with the blood of my mother and father. _

_Enemy of mine. Time has slipped listlessly past us, carving me into an assassin, a bringer of destruction, your killer, your lover. I have not forgotten you, and I am certain you have not exiled me from your thoughts either. Do my kisses still linger upon your lips; does my name etched in silver still hang as a talisman around your neck? _

_Run from me, hide from me, for I will steal your life, I will tear everything you know asunder for you have taken everything from me. I have long ago fallen from grace, from the celestial heavens of my youth and now I walk the condemned path of my kin, of our kind. _

_I am guilty of treason, a Vatican's son. And I vow upon my life and my death that I will bring about your destruction, and beckon forth another resurrection. _

_ ~Ed Wuncler III, 12__th__ of October 2008~_

"…_you never know your limits Edward until you have killed someone" _

_ ~ Ed Wuncler Sr._

Ed sat rigidly in one of the ornate cathedrae's in his grandfather's study, his hands and neck itching with dried blood. He was nervous, balancing on the edge of exhaustion but his fear kept him half vigilant capturing him in that limbo between the worlds of dreams and waking memories.

His eyes were tightly clenched shut; he found the darkness there more comforting then his present surroundings. He hated this room, loathed it with his very soul. This vile chamber was the pinnacle of Wuncler's blood empire, the jewel in his crown of thorns. A Demons Den erected on a foundation of sin, corruption and treachery; a place where men went to barter money in exchange for blood, sold their souls to the Devil to the abandonment of all hope. Lives were cheap here but requests to end them were not and had to be paid for with a terrible price.

He shifted anxiously in his chair casting his memory back to the night he had been tied to this broken throne with his hands bound together, his shoulders and ribs screaming in agony; forced stare into the fathomless tempest eyes of his grandfather as he had tried to break his spirit. A noose yanked tight around his neck urging him to kneel in a pool of his own blood before his monarch, his judge, his master.

His eyes flicked open and he unconsciously rubbed his wrists, almost expecting his fingers to come away wet with blood. There were scares there wrapped around the flesh where the thin, elegant bones of his fingers met the pivot of his wrist. They were faint pallid threads that were engraved into his body a constant reminder of his first rebellion against his grandfather.

He stared at his hands refusing to look straight before him, there were too many memories scratching at the walls behind his eyes, and he didn't need the instrument of his past punishment of that fateful night to twist the key and let them out.

Instead he turned his gaze to the paintings that lined the walls near the fire place. His eyes coming to rest on one with a silver plate fastened to the bottom of the frame etched with name _The Whitechapel God. _

The figure of a tall, lithe man stood against the background of a gothic cathedral its stained glass windows tainted with the flickering of holy fire. Ivory steps swept up behind him gleaming like bleached bones, leading to the curved arches of the churches entrance. But the Whitechapel God had his back turned from the portals, and Ed suspected that he was not welcome in such a pious place of worship.

He was swathed in a black cloak the edges of which curled away from the cobble stones disappearing in wisps of onyx. Both his hands were clasped over the top of a cane the silver band of a ring engraved with a rune glistened on one tapered finger. A gentleman's silk top hat was pulled low over his face, casting half his features in shadow.

The exposed portion of his visage looked as though it were carved from marble, and was aristocratically handsome. It was how Lucifer would have looked before he had been cast from heaven, before he became the embodiment of sin and fell to his abysmal prison. Hair the color of obsidian fell across his statuesque shoulders stopping above the silver gleam of a lapel pin bearing the likeness of a wolf slinking though the darkness.

However it was the man's eyes that drew Ed's attention, eyes which were the same winter steel hue of his grandfathers. They burned with intelligence and the seething sparks of malice and were absent of any breath of life, they were the eyes of a heartless murderer. Though the man was the incarnate image of a refined aristocrat, Ed had a feeling there was nothing gentle about him. He was a demon that had been rejected from the gates of hell and spat out to plague the world of men. He was Wuncler's father.

Ed swallowed his throat going dry as clever fingers jostled the passkey to that night his body had been broken in the name of Wuncler under the cruel gaze of his great grandfather. The silent witness to the retribution that had slammed relentlessly into his body trying in vain to reduce him to a groveling slave.

_It had been half a year since his parents had been killed, the days had become colder and shorter severed by the gnawing fangs of winter. Ed stood on the threshold of his grandfather's study encircled by men as silent as the dead. Through the oaken door the clock was chiming its Baroque waltz, the notes blending with the gentle tones of his grandfather. The resonance of Wuncler's voice was gentle, but Ed could sense the underlying smoky timbre of simmering rage. Another contract had fallen though coupled with the untimely, unforeseen death of one of their finest assassins. _

_The lost hit was a trifling matter easily dismissed and forgiven; the dead hitman, however, was a coup de grace in an already wounded agency, a crippling loss from which Wuncler would never fully recover. The millions of dollars that he had spent on special training, on the proper handling and invention of weapons, on building a reputation of having in his service a swift, efficient killer had all been destroyed, blown away just like the side of his elites skull. _

_Wuncler's hand rested on the scrolled burnished door knob his trembling fingers the only thing betraying his wrath. The details of his assassin's failure were vague and the only information that was certain was that he was dead, sniped though his eye with a high caliber weapon leaving half his face torn off. His brand the symbol that marked him as a member of the Legion of Three and servant to the Wuncler family had been sliced from his forearm, a grisly trophy for his killer and an unspoken warning._

_Such desecration was like the black spot to contract agencies, the final blow dealt during the death kneel. The glory of the Wuncler name was stumbling to graceless halt and even Ed who had little knowledge of its secret inner workings could sense it. He was also aware that his grandfather would not bestow an elegant bow of farewell from his family trade; the two remaining guilds would have to drag him from the arena of assassins snarling his defiance from the end of a chain and he expected his men to do the same. _

_But loyalty in the dark world of paid killers was fragile and easily turned to another family, one that held more power and offered more protection from the seeking eyes of enemy agencies. They were a wounded house, crawling from the wolves that were bearing down on them with gapping maws seeking their throats. Eventually there would be no one left except an old man and his heir and that was when the real game of roulette would begin. _

_Ed briefly wondered how long it would take before both he and his grandfather were slain he knew that such high profile kills from a prestigious sire name would gain any agency a strong reputation. But he wasn't frightened of this, in fact he would have embraced death back then, would have stood in plain view with his arms stretched wide and his chest exposed to the sights of a sniper. The pain of losing his parents was still fresh, and joy was elusive, a fleeting nymph in a gauze shroud of memories. _

_The harsh voice of his grandfather suddenly broke Ed from his revelry,_

"_I put my faith and reputation in that pitiful fuck and he falls like a sapling before a winter gale, useless filth, just like my God damned son,"_

_The insult stung like a Scourges whip and Ed felt his lips draw back in a mocking sneer and a scathing retort had left his lips before he was aware he had even uttered the scornful words. _

"_What's the matter you sniveling old fuck… afraid to bark without your dogs surrounding you, afraid the next bullet will have your name scrawled across it….?"_

_Such malice sweet syllables, so laden with hatred they burned his tongue like hellfire. Silence descended like an executioner's axe and before he could say more a sharp pain erupted along the side of his face. Blood tinted with the taste of gold seeped into his mouth drowning the rest of his sentence. He felt his teeth crack together and the tendons in his neck painfully twist from the violent force of Wuncler back handing him across the face a second time._

_It took a moment for him to resurface from the wave vertigo that washed over him. When it finally broke he felt the wrath that had threatened to take him the moment before drag him under. He didn't fight it, and let it swallow him. _

_His teeth had cut into soft flesh of his cheek and blood leaked freely into his mouth. His fingers twitched before curling into his palm, and he sealed his lips to keep the blood from dribbling free. Slowly he turned back to face his grandfather his jaw clenched tight and took a pace toward him. He took a sharp breath though his nose and spat out the gruesome mixture of saliva and gore; catching Wuncler full in the face. _

_He smirked in satisfaction at the snarl of disgust that hissed between his grandfather's teeth. Noticing a moment to late the ring of men flanking them close like a hangman's noose; again Ed was sent reeling as the hilt from a stiletto struck him across the temple. _

_Darkness tinged the edges of his vision and the floor suddenly slammed into his body. Stunned he was vaguely aware of strong fingers curling into the collar of his shirt. He was hoisted unceremoniously to his feet, and though a blurred haze he saw one of his grandfathers elites take one of the chairs that faced Wuncler's desk and spin it around so that the seat was facing him. Half staggering he was thrust forward his knees crashing into its edge, jolting him into a kneeling position. _

_His hands were quickly bound with fiber wire and hooked beneath the arched curve of wood that curled across the back of the cathedrae and his feet were swiftly bound to the elegantly arched legs. Half bowed over the chair he felt the cold kiss of a knife blazed down his spine shearing his off his jacket and shirt. He tried to jerk his hands free but gasped at the thin wire sliced into his wrists scraping against bone._

_His vision still swam but quickly came into focus as his grandfather stepped into his line of sight. Half dried blood speckled his throat and the ashen white of his silk shirt. There was no trace of displeasure on his face which had been wiped clean but rather held a frightening clam look. His gaze settled briefly on his subdued grandson before glancing to the wall behind his desk. _

_Against his will Ed felt icy fear reach down his throat and curl around his spine he closed his teeth against the groan that threatened to spill from his lips. Wuncler must have noticed this because he smirked and finally took his seat. For a long moment he didn't say anything just stared at his grandson his eyes tracing over the heirs features. Ed was so much like he had been in his youth, and if not for the flame of ember colored hair he could have been peering into a mirror from the past. The similarities didn't halt with their physical appearances for their personalities were also akin, even though Ed would rather slit his own throat than admit it. _

_They were both arrogant, short tempered, and hungered for power. But where Wuncler wouldn't halt at nothing to get what he wanted, Ed would always relent. He lacked his grandfather's cruelty, had no taste for blood and would shrug off transgressions as if they were nothing. He was just like his father, and Wuncler had assumed that with his son's death the family name would be rid of such weakness._

_He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb. He had hoped that he would have to skip this lecture with his grandson. But it seemed as though the boy was following in his father's footsteps and such a transgression had to be addressed. When he finally did speak in was in a placid soulless tone, a voice he used when he reprimanded one of his men for fucking up a contract, the chaos of Hell lurked behind that tone. _

"_While I admire your loyalty to your father, it seems to me that you need a lesson in who holds the position of master, and who carries the name of the docile servant," _

_Ed felt his eyes narrow in distaste, _

"_I am no one's servant," _

_The words were spat out with such disdain they singed the air. _

_Wuncler softly laughed,_

"_Here you are bound and practically kneeling before me, helpless and facing great retribution yet you still….,"_

_He paused and smirked,_

"_Spit your defiance in my face. I love that ferocious courage it breeds intense loyalty and bears with it the mark of a warrior and a hero. But that foolish bravery has also proved to be the bane of many a crusading man… the proverbial blade across the throat if you will. " _

_Again he hesitated before reaching across his desk plucking a crystal goblet and decanter from an engraved tray and poured himself some brandy. He held the glass aloft letting the silver moonlight merge and swirl with the amber liquid. _

"_Did you know that the last man who disrespected me paid for it with a chalice brimming with his own blood? His offense was far less atrocious then yours, just a few ill spoken words, a vain attempt to prove his worth for a possible employer. I decided to test that valor, to drag it to the very brink of begging torture, and do you know what I discovered? I, found that his courage for all its brazen bravado was fleeting. I had him on his knees, screaming for mercy by the fourth cut of the skinning knife. Which makes me wonder, my grandson, how strong is your bravery… your fortitude?"_

_The curse that had been balancing on Ed's tongue was swallowed as a handkerchief was shoved into his mouth with such a force that he almost gagged. It tasted of tobacco, stainless steel and detergent, he was silently thankful for the small blessing that it was clean. Bound as he was, he tried to snap at the fingers that still hovering around his mouth and received a swift slap. Dizziness seized him and he tried to shake it off, coughing as new blood mingled with the fresh taste of linen._

"_However, I am not surprised by your actions Edward…filth is born of filth after all,"_

_Ed's scream of rage could be heard though his gag and he wrenched against his restraints so hard that the chair creaked. _

"_Calm yourself grandson soon those cries of wrath are going to become shrieking laments of agony."_

_Wuncler shifted his gaze to the wall behind him, to the wicked instruments that glimmered from steel hooks. They were beautiful in the terrible way that all weapons are, slim and lethal, death personified in the physical form of cold steel and jewels. Ed had never witnessed them being used before, but he had heard the screams that they caused. Cries that echoed though out the manor in the shadows of the night that after long hours finally would taper off into groans of pain mingling with metal flaying open flesh._

_Sometimes the screams that were wet with blood and torn with fear, other times they were dry and soul wrenching. But they would always eventually go silent, leaving behind the quiet of the tortured that have slipped into the bliss of unconsciousness. Those were the nights his grandfather broke the spirit of his hitmen and bent them to his will and whims. _

_Wuncler made a brief motion with his fingers and one of his assassins seemed to materialize beside him, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. Ed immediately knew what type hitman this was simply from the relaxed way he was standing. A specialized assassin trained in the finer arts of torture, skilled in extracting information with the precise twist of a hook or delicate slice of a skinning knife. _

_Every guild had one even the lower contract agencies that were considered to be parasites among The Three Legions; elites like him were a necessary evil. If these men had any formal birth name it was either long forgotten or only known by their patron; and to their fellow hitmen they were simply deemed Scourges. _

_Wuncler's Scourge had a wicked appearance, his figure was thin as a saber blade and moved with the swift grace of moon dappled shadow. His eyes were as obsidian as the cowl of death and held the dull gleam of someone who had long ago bartered their soul away to the pits of hell. Unlike the rest of the assassins present the brand of his grandfather's agency could be seen twisting along the side of his throat. _

_Hair that was the color of auburn spun gossamer fell past his shoulders barely brushing against the silver wolf lapel pen on his custom jacket. His features were sharp and reminded Ed of frontiers men in old sepia photographs, men who were as tough as the new land they had just settled and just as capable of savagery as the Indians who occupied it before them. _

_He was dressed in a tailored suit of black silk accented by silver buttons on the cuffs. A scarlet shirt halted at a black leather belt that was wound around slim hips. The only piece of jewelry he wore was a heavy silver ring of a wolf its jaws open in a gaping snarling grin giving accent to gleaming garnet eyes which were the mirror image of the pin on the collar of his jacket. _

_When he leaned down to hear the whispered order that Wuncler gave him his jacket shifted back and Ed saw the glimmer of knife hilts that had been thrust into his belt. He watched as those sable eyes briefly flicked to him, their glassy depths suddenly dancing with a hellish light that caused sweat to trickle down Ed's spine. _

_He tried to swallow around the handkerchief in his mouth, attempting to steal his nerves for the punishment that was about to be unleashed upon him. The Scourge straightened and turned away from both him and his grandfather and settled his attention on the wall in front of him. _

_Ed knew that they were called Relesque, whips that been used by the Persians to urge their war horses into the fury of battle. But Wuncler had added his own customizations turning them into vicious weapons. Saber hilts cast from silver had replaced simple leather bound handles. The lash was wrought from a narrow piece of steel wrapped in raw hide that tapered into a heavy iron ring that dangled from the tip. Unlike cat-o-nines these whips were not meant to peel flesh from the body but where designed to crack bones and leave deep internal damage. _

_Strange runes had been etched into the weighted metal cinctures, and precious stones had been set along the edges indicting specific weight. His grandfather had bestowed upon his creations the name of Devil's Crown, because of the circular marks they left on the victim's body. _

_There were seven of them, each one as elegantly crafted and malicious as the Scythe of Azrial. The Scourge selected one with a hilt set with an azure pommel stone and a circlet encrusted with sapphires that had been filed to small sharp points. _

_He returned to his patron's side with the weapon laid across his palms waiting for him to inspect his choice. Wuncler took the whip from his torturer and hefted it in a graceful arch. There was a blur of blue tainted silver followed by the delicate sound of shattering crystal as the metal ring slammed into the decanter resting on the side of his desk; spraying Ed with brandy and shards of glass._

_Giving a slight nod of satisfaction Wuncler turned the Devil's Crown back to his Scourges grasp. He then settled his focus back on Ed, quite certain that he had his grandson's undivided attention._

"_Give him twenty lashes,"_

_His Scourge's lips twitched in the shade of a smile and when he spoke his voice rose to nothing more than a grating whisper. _

"_It would be my pleasure sir,"_

_The other assassins flanking Ed swiftly shifted back leaving the Scourge enough room raise the whip to the pinnacle of its height. He approached slowly his eyes trailing from the bruise on Ed's face, to the curve of his throat and remained fixed there. Ed had the chilling feeling that those lifeless eyes were lingering on his pulse memorizing the frantic thrashing beat of his heart. _

_He slightly flinched when the man reached out and trailed his fingers along his jaw line to his shoulders. And tried to jerk away when those cool slender digits skimmed down his spine and spanned his ribs, lightly tracing over each one. The soft cadence of the Scourges voice reached his ears as he counted the spaces between the gently arched bones. _

_It was a frightening meticulous touch, one that was well rehearsed, and skillful. He was making note of every curve on Ed's body, committing to memory how he naturally moved and reacted when frightened. It made Ed want to scream._

_After a few moments the Scourge withdrew his hands and took his place on Ed's right side. There was a smooth swish as he brought the Devil's Crown just above his shoulder and the soft creak of leather as the cincture swung back. _

_Ed drew in as deep of breath as he could without choking himself on the cloth jammed into his mouth and time seemed to swing to a slow halt. His eyes turned to light on his grandfather, and he felt hatred rise up from the roiling fear that threatened to drown him. A vicious little voice began to grind against consciousness ranting that he wasn't going to give that arrogant fuck the satisfaction of seeing him writhing and screaming for mercy. _

_He wasn't going to let the old prick break him like he had so many other men. Not this night, or any night after; let him be tortured, let him be beaten, let the flesh be split and torn from his bones and everything in this world be stolen from him. Until his dying breath he would never relent his coveted pride, and in so doing he would keep what was left of his soul. _

_A sense of terrible calm swept over him at that realization, one that heightened every sensation especially where the Scourge had laid his fingers, the feeling burned its self across his brain. Then it was shattered as the lash slammed into his side with a sickening crunch. Ed felt rather then heard his ribs break and was glad couldn't scream because the air had been smashed from his lungs. Instead he coughed as hot blood surged up his throat and seeped into the handkerchief. The chair groaned as he arched his back trying to toss off the agony that was leaping down his spine. All the while that small voice grew in volume, rising from a whisper to a bellowing shriek that drowned out the pain and the sound of his flesh being pounded against his bones._

_Blood spattered across Wuncler's desk as the cincture flicked back and fell across a half open welt. The silver was tarnished with blood and the sapphires had taken on a different crimson hued tone. _

_Ed's breath was coming in shallow huffs, sweat tinged with brandy dripped from the tips of his hair and blood ran in rivulets down his arms dribbling from the tips of his fingers. But he still remained quiet so fixated on his grandfather that he hardly felt the blows raining down on his shoulders and sides. Only when the roar of his heartbeat drowned out the grotesque sound of metal smashing into broken flesh, and darkness descend upon him did he break his stare._

_By the final stroke his body had gone slack, his pale skin etched with ribbons of crimson. His ravaged back was nothing more than a mass of twitching flesh and his entire being shuttered each time he drew in a breath. The Scourge glanced at Wuncler his face smeared with gore, and lowered his weapon. His patron gave a brief nod, and the soft whisper of a knife being unsheathed mingled with Ed's ragged breathing. _

_His torturer knelt and slid the thin blade between his victim's blood slick wrists severing the fiber wire that bound them, and did the same to the ties that wound around his ankles. Holding Ed's shoulders steady the Scourge hooked his fingers between his lips and pulled out the gag. He flung the now filthy rag back to its owner, gripped Ed by the back of belt and kicked the chair out from beneath him. Easily holding Ed's limp body he inclined his head to the two hitmen nearest to him._

"_Help me get his bleeding carcass back to his quarters,"_

_Ed awoke in agony. Pain dragged its talon fingers across his shoulders slicing open his spine. When he tried to catch his breath to ward off the agony it felt as though a knife had been thrust between his ribs and savagely being twisted back and forth. He pressed his face into the silken softness of his pillow silently thanking whoever had laid him upon his bed had mercifully stretched him out on his stomach. _

_He tried to move his hands to pull himself up on his knees and almost fainted. _

_Spitting curses and oaths of vengeance he brought his hands level to his face realizing that the remnants of the fiberwire were still gouged into his skin. The handles and knots had been cut away leaving the frayed ends. So he took them into his teeth and began to pull the razor keen fiber from his flesh. Dried blood cracked and peeled away as the synthetic thread gently began to loosen, leaving behind trails of ugly cuts that were deeply carved into his wrists. _

_When the wire finally came free the emerald silk of his bed spread was speckled with crimson and through the congealed blood Ed could see the dull gleam of exposed bone. Clutching his bleeding hands to his chest he swung his feet over the side of the bed, relieved that the fiber wire had not been able to slice though the fabric of his slacks. He sat there a moment trying to wade through the pain that crashed over him with each breath he took._

_When he finally attempted to stand vertigo reached up though the floor and threatened to sweep him off his feet. He swayed coughing when the rancid taste of old gore filled his mouth and his stomach churned, pitching against the back of his throat. Slightly swaggering he lurched to the bathroom stepping over the threshold just as the first taste of bile bubbled up behind his teeth. _

_Making a horrid gagging sound he managed to lunge forward and brace his oozing hands against the side of sink before he vomited. His mouth opened in the parody of a snarl and a wet spattering of blackened blood sloshed against the white marble sink staining it a grotesque brackish hue. He felt his splintered ribs grate together, and almost reeling from the pain bent over resting his forehead against the curve of the faucet and dry heaved._

_Bile and blood dribbled from his nose and between his clenched teeth as he fought down another spasm. It was a futile effort, trembling he groaned as his stomach jerked against his broken ribs and the world blurred to blackness. He awoke slumped against the cold marble wall his throat raw and burning from vomit, bloody saliva sealing his lips together. He sat there a moment his neck arched back and staring at the fresco-ed ceiling. He was no longer dizzy and his stomach didn't feel like it was trying to crawl out of his mouth. But the bones in his side jabbed into his heart with each breath. _

_Reaching out he grasped the edge of the counter and hauled himself unsteadily to his feet. He briefly glanced at the mess is the sink before turning on the brass taps. Leaning his hips against the cool granite he bent over, cupped his hands underneath the water. He lowered his head pressing his lips against the base of his palms and slowly drew the crisp liquid into his mouth. He swished it around wincing when it washed over the gash in his cheek waiting until the putrid taste faded before he spat it out swiping his hands across his lips glad that the rancid sting of bile no longer lingered on his tongue. _

_Breathing shallowly he flicked his gaze to the mirror gazing at the damage his grandfather had caused. Blood shot eyes peered out at him glazed and half lidded as though he were suffering from an illness. His skin was pallid and lashed with thin scrawlings of blood, coupled with a dark bruise that swept down from his temple to the curve of his jaw. _

'_Filth begets filth…,'_

_He abruptly severed his stare with the ghoulish looking figure and slowly began making his way to his bed. He stumbled only once and by the grace of fortune caught himself on the edge of his armoire jarring his ribs. Staggering the last few steps he gently eased himself onto the edge of the mattress. He briefly considered shedding his filthy pants but dismissed the thought. Weariness was swiftly seeping into his aching body and the physical act of unclasping his belt and the thought of slipping out of his cloths exhausted him. So taking great care he gently lifted his legs onto his bed and then turned to lie on his stomach. Sleep stole upon him on the padded feet of a wolf. _

_In the hazy wisps of his dreams gentle fingers were handling his wrists, smoothing across his flesh, and easing his gaping wounds. He sighed and in the twilight of consciousness believed that his mother was there soothing his pain, and mending his damaged body. Through half open eyes Ed watched pale hands wind linen around his slashed wrists. Silver glimmered from the light on the bed side table each time his hands were turned and wrapped. _

_The flash of a fang, the glint of a garnet eye blazed at him, whipped him, beat him. The wraith of his mother dissolved and he was suddenly very awake and aware of who was touching him and binding his wrists with bandages. Ed tried to jerk his hand from the others grasp but found his forearm held fast by an iron grip. He twisted around, his ribs howling though the hatred roaring in his ears and lashed out with other arm his fingers seeking to claw out the other man's throat. _

_The Scourge released Ed's arm, grunting as he settled his hands on the heir's shoulders trying to still his failing body. Ed snarled raking and snapping at the fingers that were holding him down his voice rising with his wrath, _

"_I'll kill you, you cock sucking mother fucker,"_

_In his rage he bucked all his weight forward pitching the other man from his body, scrabbled around until he was back on his stomach and lurched for the bedside table. His fingers brushed its very edge before he felt strong hands snag his belt and forcefully yanked him backwards. He made one final grab for the drawer cursing when the lamp toppled to the floor and shattered throwing the room in partial darkness._

_A strong grip settled on the back of his neck and hurled him back around so that he was once again resting on his back. There was the soft sound of leather scrapping steel and he blinked in surprise immediately halting as the cool edge of a knife was suddenly thrust against his throat. A low voice grated in his ear,_

"_I am here to try and mend some of the damage I caused but I assure you young Wuncler if you utter a sound and an assassin hears we will both feel the kiss of Devils Crown,"_

_Ed snorted his lips peeling back in a disdainful sneer,_

"_I lived though it once you spineless cunt, the punishment of the lash would be worth your spilled blood. I don't give a fuck who hears, you on your knees beside me would be a worth it" _

_Pale lips twitched into a crooked smirk, _

"_I showed mercy on you this night Edward, I could have made you suffer far more then you did remember that,"_

_As swiftly as the blade appeared it was withdrawn in a glimmer of steel tucked back into the sheath beneath the Scourges jacket. He lifted his weight from Ed's prone body and sat back on his heels, wearily watching the younger man. He frowned when he saw just how tense Ed was sitting his arms were stiff, and his legs were rigid ready to spring away should the other man attack. _

_The wrappings on his wrists had been torn off during their struggle and hung like tattered ribbons from his hands. The wound on his temple had been reopened, and blood dripped in thin threads down the side of his face. The green eyes that glared hatred at him were beginning to glass over as the adrenaline faded from his body and pain once again took hold. _

_The Scourge sighed, muttering under his breath and shrugged off his jacket. Hidden beneath it was the belt that held the knives that Ed had glimpsed earlier. Making sure that his movements were slow and unthreatening the Scourge moved his fingers across the wolf head buckle and unclasped the belt. He slipped it from his hips and held it out to the younger man at arm length, the hilts of his blades softly clinked together as they dangled from his fingers. _

"_Here young Wuncler take it as a sign of good faith that I am not trying to play you false," _

_Viridian eyes locked with onyx as Ed hesitantly reached forward and took the weapon cincture from the Scourges willing hands. Ed swiftly skimmed his fingers along the hilts before drawing a long, thin bladed skinning knife. He laid the weapon beside him within easy reach and began to carefully roll up the belt. He buckled the hasp and slightly wincing he leaned over slipping it underneath the bed._

_The Scourge watched all this with mild amusement before bowing his voice losing its threatening rasp and settling into a cordial tone that teetered on the cusp of a British accent._

"_Shall we continue? Or I will I have to knock you senseless?"_

_Ed snorted and raised his middle finger in defiance before slowly settling back onto his stomach. He curled one arm under his head and to the other man's slight surprise held up his other hand to allow him to continue bandaging his wrist. _

"_I still don't trust you,"_

_His healer gave a small sound of acknowledgement,_

"_Pity because I can be your greatest ally here," _

_ Ed answered with contemptible bark of laugher that ended with a sneer,_

_ "You have yet to totally prove worthy of anything more than my hatred and scorn. Nothing more than one of grandfather's mongrels,"_

_ He winced when the Scourge yanked hard on his wrapping,_

_ "Watch your tongue Edward I am no more on the end of your grandfather's leash than you. And to assume that I will snarl on his command is a mistake."_

_ "No you just spill blood at his whim,"_

_ A pained looked flickered across the other man's face and for a moment the soulless hue of his eyes shown with a spark of regret._

_ "What would you have had me do? Speak out against your grandfather? Risk being bound and beaten beside you for my insolence? Any one of those men known's how to wield a Devils Crown but none of them know the delicate intricacy of the human body and they would have stripped the flesh from you ribs and broken your back. My hits were precise and while it felt savage they caused a minimal amount of damage." _

_ He laid Ed's hand back on the bed and reached for the other, _

_ "While I am willing to offer you my friendship it is not worth tarnishing a trust that has taken years to forage. I cannot risk everything I have strived for to be cast aside because I feel pity for my patron's flesh and blood." _

_He saw Ed's eyes crinkle in confusion and briefly smiled,_

_ "No, I will not tell you what that 'everything' is…not yet anyway my trust has to be earned as well,"_

_ Ed huffed and withdrew his hand from the others grasp when he had finished tucking the loose end of linen into the rest of the bandage. _

_ "Like I would have anyone to tell…or want to tell."_

_ The Scourge nodded delicately prodding Ed's bruised ravaged back, _

_ "Be that as it may I don't know how deeply your loyalties lie,"_

_His fingers began drifting over the welts and split skin following the same pattern they had before he had flogged the younger man. It was a wraith's touch one that caused Ed no pain until it settled on his shattered ribs and gently pressed down. Ed hissed at the sudden burst of white agony that stabbed though his guts and up to his brain but otherwise didn't jerk away. _

_ "I think that my actions towards my grandfather have spoken for themselves," _

_These words spoken though clenched teeth, whether from pain or scorn the Scourge couldn't tell. He shifted back from the heir, reaching for the bedside table and retrieved a vial. He unscrewed the top and dabbed some salve on his fingers before smearing it across the ugly bruise that was daggered across Ed's side. His voice was wistful as he tended to the other wounds that decorated Ed's back._

_ "Yes well actions can be just as deceiving as words-,"_

_ His sentence snapped to an end as Ed swiveled around in a grotesque lurching motion. His ribs gave a murmuring crunch and in a blurred movement his hand was suddenly wrapped around the Scourges throat. He was jerked down so fast that his teeth cracked together then drug forward so that he was almost nose to nose with Ed. The tip of his own knife settled against the soft flesh of his throat with just enough pressure that he could feel his pulse thrumming against the blade. The voice that whispered against the shell of his ear was that of his patron, and if he had not been staring into eyes the hue of jade he would have been certain that it was Ed Sr. speaking to him. _

_ "And what of your actions right now Scourge? Are they a sirens call luring me into a trap?"_

_Ignoring his squalling ribs Ed yanked the startled man closer tilting his head down so his words were tracing across the other man's lips just like the steel softly trailing across the tendons of his neck._

"_I suggest you answer with the truth, or I will slice it out of you,"_

_ The Scourge swallowed thickly, wincing then the strokes became for forceful,_

_ "There are two things in this world I loathe above all others and they are liars and thieves, I aspire to be neither of these,"_

_ He felt the fingers tighten on his wrist and the eyes staring into his narrowed. This lasted for the span of a few breaths and then he was released the blade leaving his neck but not Ed's grasp. The red head drew himself up on his knees and turned so that his back was facing the assassin. The young heir then made a brief motion with the knife for the other man to continue his voice was threaded with amusement,_

_ "A torturer with a noble heart…how uncommonly chivalrous," _

_ The other man sat there a moment trying to regain his voice and get a grip on his scattered thoughts. He drew in a deep breath and resumed rubbing the salve into his patients back,_

_ "My own laws and morals bind me tighter then the creed," _

_ "Ah yes the Assassins Creed, the oath all of the elite killers must take where they are forced to their knees and set flame to the picture of the Pale Rider* and embrace the tenants of their new house," _

_ The Scourge could hear the smirk in Ed's voice, _

_ "Pointless words, pointless loyalties, which balance on the edge of a knife, on the tip of a bullet. My grandfather is about to lose his precious empire and his men, his soldiers, his dogs turned wolves are already chewing though the leads that anchor them to our name. Soon they will leave us to die with our house their brands will be scorched away and new ones will be etched into their bodies and they will lay at the feet of a new master without the gnashing of teeth and the memory of Edward Wuncler I will become a distant memory,"_

_ Ed had relaxed into the hands moving across his back, noticing the tingling warmth of the unguent being spread across his shoulders and back. It numbed the pain which cleared his mind and loosened his tongue. _

_ "I thought you knew little of the affairs of the society your grandfather leads?"_

_ A mirthless chuckle,_

_ "I know of the lore, believe it or not I am capable of reading, but I have little knowledge of the internal affairs, how the killings work, where the assassins come from, who are clients, who are ally's and who are enemies," _

_ He paused, his voice becoming so soft that the Scourge had to lean forward to hear it,_

_ "I am not as imbecilic as many take me for, I know far more then my grandfather could ever guess. I know that we are…were part of something called The Three Legions and that they bear the names of Carbellot, and Arach. I don't know anything about them but I tried to find something, anything…because I thought… maybe the men who headed those guilds would know who assassinated my parents. But I searched in vain; it was as if they didn't exist, there were no family coat of arms or history…nothing. I was grasping in the dark, chasing shadows."_

_ The Scourge felt pity swell in his chest at the broken tone in Ed's voice and unconsciously rested his hand on the others shoulder, _

_ "Edward…I…if you're still seeking answers be weary of Carbellot and Arach they…they are dangerous, even more so now that Wuncler's agency is crumbling. Besides you need to cast your gaze closer to home." _

_ Ed's head snapped back to look at him his brow furrowed in confusion his eyes full of questions. The Scourge merely gave him an enigmatic little grin and gave his shoulder a brief squeeze. He held up the glass bottle of liniment for the redhead to see and returned it to its original place on the bedside table and moved to stand up. _

_ "I am leaving this here with you along with some clean bandages and hydrocodone. You won't be able to wear a shirt for a couple of days because your wounds are likely to bleed." _

_ He reached down and picked up his jacket from the floor withdrawing from its inner pockets an orange prescription bottle, and rolls of clean linen. _

_ "The dressings on your wrists will need to be changed in four days if there is bleed though then sooner, make sure they don't dry out either because they could adhere to your cuts and cause more damage than good."_

_ But Ed was only half listening, the Scourges words about searching closer to home were clanging so loudly in his head that the others voice had faded all together. He was so lost in his tangled thoughts that he flinched when the Scourge brushed his fingers against arm to gain his attention. Ed turned eyes up to look at him, _

_ "May I retrieve my blades now young Wuncler?"_

_ The heir nodded reaching up to rub at his eyes with his forefinger and thumb his voice soft, _

_ "Yes of course," _

_ He watched his head slightly slumped forward his arms resting on his knees as the elite retrieved his belt and began slipping it around his waist. The hasp flashed its serrated snarling wolf grin at him before it was covered by the silk of his Brioni suit jacket. _

_ "Why are you here…why do you work for my grandfather?"_

_ The Scourge glanced up from his task his mouth set in a thin line and remained silent for a moment and took a small pace forward. He halted in front of Ed and abruptly leaned down resting his chin on Ed's shoulder so that his mouth was close the young heir's ear his other hand cupping the side of his neck. _

"_I owe a debt to someone, a penance for a promise that I broke, and this is the Hell I must endure for it," _

_ "Is that a piece of the 'everything' you mentioned earlier?"_

_ The Scourges lips curled in a smile and he straightened taking a pace back from Ed his hand shifting down so his fingers were splayed against the red head's collar bone. _

_ "Yes a very small shard," _

_ He turned and began to make his way to the door then hesitated, his hand resting on the knob. His shoulders were stiff and Ed could hear the sound of silver striking against brass as he tapped his fingers against the handle._

_ "You have your father's strength Edward, you have his resolve and his courage and that doesn't make you foolish, or weak. You're the first I have ever seen assassin or otherwise to have endured the lash of the Devils Crown and didn't scream for mercy. You don't know how much that frightens your grandfather, to have a man refuse to bend to his will and not lick his boots,"_

_ His voice suddenly took on a steely edge and dropped to a low whisper,_

_ "But be cautious I beg you… physical retaliation will write an early epitaph for death. Words and humiliation of your grandfather's pride will slice deeper than any blade."_

_This seemed to be the end of his speech because there was a gentle click as the door opened. Ed was about to let him leave when a thought struck him. _

_ "Wait…please wait," _

_ The torturer half turned his face sliced with moonlight, an eye brow raised in question. The heir swung his legs over the edge of the bed wincing when he had to brace himself to stand up. He limped forward until he was a few paces from the other man._

_ "Please…tell me your name." _

_ The Scourge blinked his lips twitched in a small smile,_

_ "My name is Erath Grey," _

_ "You were a friend to my father," _

_ Erath gave a slight nod and for a brief moment his eyes flickered with the lamenting shine of grief. _

_ "So now you shall be a friend to me,"_

When Ed opened his eyes they were brimming with unshed tears. Sorrow knifed though him, Erath had been a scintilla in the darkness, easing his despair. As the weeks had spun into months, Erath had become something much more than a friend. He became a mentor, teaching him the lore and ancient laws of assassins, instructing him on how to wield blades, guiding him in laying the memory of his parents to a peaceful rest.

He was no longer pursued by the specters of his parents when night descended, and nightmares no longer crept under the sheets with him in the darkness of sleep. His grandfathers biting remarks were now met with razor edged insults that halted at the very limits of Wuncler's temper.

Along with these skills Erath also taught Ed how to forage a mask to hide himself away from the prying eyes of his enemies. It was a valuable ability, one that he demonstrated to Ed on many occasions. For when he was at Ed's side he was Erath Grey, a refined gentleman with the shadow of a British accent, a man who was easily captured by the graceful poetry of Henry Longfellow Wadsworth, and could bring Ed to tears with the elegance and prowess with the violin.

But in the presence of his grandfather he held no name and was simply a Scourge feared, bloodthirsty, pitiless and cruel able to deliberately slice men apart, skin them alive and rip information out of them with tools of torture. He did this without hesitation, deaf to their screams of agony following Wuncler's orders without question.

Then one night, Erath failed to meet Ed for one of their nightly teachings. The redhead was not overly concerned when this happened. Erath was an elite and was often absent for days sometimes weeks without giving notice because there was often no time.

But when months had past and his friend still had not returned dread began to fester in Ed's heart. Assassins were already leaving the Wuncler name and it would only be a matter of time before none of them remained. But Erath had given no indication that he was going to flee, and he never even spoke of offering his services to another family. After five months his grandfather somehow gained another Scourge, a thin man with obsidian hair and the lurid skin of a corpse; Ed didn't bother learning his name.

Winter melted to spring, fear fell to grief and Ed presumed his friend dead. It wasn't until a year after he vanished, on a dreary fall evening that Ed received any indication that Erath still drew breath.

He found it in one of their old meeting places in the vast forgotten attics that spanned entirety of the manor. Ed often went there to seek solace from his grandfather, to study, meditate, and practice with the swords Erath had given him. He still attempted to continue the education that Erath had began but it was getting increasingly difficult. There was no one there to confide his wrath too, to comfort him and offer support.

Then he found it, resting against a back window pane as if it had been waiting for him. It was an envelope with his name scrawled across the back in elegant cursive, sealed with emerald colored wax shaped in the gapping maw of a wolf. The paper had yellowed with age and was covered in a layer of dust Ed already knew what it was before he even opened it. Erath's ring rolled into the palm of his hand glimmering in the shadows, its teeth bared, its crimson eyes sparkling like small droplets of blood. Inside was a brief letter, written in the same graceful curves and loops as his name across the back of the envelope.

_Edward, _

_ The pen weighs heavy in my hand as I write this…but I thought that I would have more time to teach you, to tell you…everything. But it seems that the sand has run its course though its hourglass prison and I am forced to leave. This letter should find you long after I am gone, and I am hoping that by some divine grace, you will never find it. That you will forget me, break free from the shackles of your family and cast aside your birthright._

_But something is whispering to me…perhaps its fate, perhaps the devil murmuring from the darkness and that you will follow in your father's footsteps that you will finish what he began…what we began. Remember what I have taught you Ed, remember who you are set your own path become something more than a blood hungry mercenary. _

_ I wish that I could tell you where I am bound, and if you will see me again. But I cannot risk the life of my friend's son I will not break another promise. But you need to know Edward…you must carry on…finish it….before it all becomes unraveled. I can start you on this path and it is with these words that we will part ways. Please forgive me my friend, may we meet again in this life or in what lies beyond,_

_ Erath Grey~_

_Captured in life from Deaths dark hand_

_Follow the Wolf of the silver band_

_Exiled by the father, his master, his son _

_Unraveled by the creed, his life undone _

_Forever kept in the shadows of time _

_Left for only the heir to find _

_Seek the mother _

_Ignore her lover _

_ Dead by the hand of the past_

_She now wears the secret beneath her grasp_

Ed had a felt a brief pang to relief when he read the letter, happy that his grandfather had not ordered his mentor to be executed, or that he had not been slain by another agency and lay rotting in a shallow grave. But this swiftly tapered into sorrow. He was once again alone, severed from the world and left to the demons that roamed though his mind.

Soon after that the persona he so often slipped into place when dealing with Wuncler became more cumbersome to shake off and to a vague sense of horror Ed began to realize he was becoming someone else.

His suits and designer cloth's were exchanged for loose fitting street attire, his accent once refined and elegant had transformed into a harsh grating snarl, slang invaded his vocabulary, liquor and narcotics swept though his body. His mask soon defined who he was, and became permanently fused with his heart and soul. With no one to teach him how to rein in this other self, it soon consumed him.

He began to visit the attic less often, the practice floor where Erath had taught him the graceful art of saber fencing, that he had kept so meticulously clean soon became dusty, the hilts of his blades tarnished and the leather scabbards became dry and split. He no longer wielded swords and danced a deadly waltz of steel in the evening shadows of gilded moonlight but instead used lethal custom made guns. Erath's lessons, his words, his voice slipped away from him and were slowly forgotten tucked away into a crypt that held his boyhood memories, his parents, who he had been and who he had meant to become, all sealed away and long buried.

But the ring and the letter were never lost to him. Erath's parting words were scorched into his memory, seething ember letters that glowered in the blackness of his consciousness and the silver ring was safely hidden away from his grandfather and his thieving hands.

Over the years Ed had managed to decipher shards of the riddle, the wolf of the silver band was the ring, and he was seeking some clandestine object that his father had hidden away before he had died. He had even been considering showing Gin the riddle, and asking him for some help but his lover had left him before he had gotten the chance.

He sighed resting his elbow on the arm of the chair cupping his forehead in palm. He rubbed his thumb over his eye brow trying to ward off the headache that was beginning to throb behind his eyes. He had not entered this room since the night the flesh had been whipped from his back, and the memories that he had been keeping careful vigil over had turned the final key and had flooded his mind with unwanted images of the past. The simple thought of Erath made his throat tighten and tears sting his eyes.

When he had left him it had been like losing his father all over again. The only weapon that truly fended off the despair and grief was that Erath still drew breath, and maybe if the riddle were ever solved Ed would know where he was, and then like the assassins of a crippled house he would leave his grandfather, and his family legacy of dealing in death and the devil.

But for now he was once again under the pitiless stares of his ancestor awaiting punishment. But there was more now than just his revulsion of his grandfather, there was something else lurking on the fringes of his mind, a dark and consuming feeling. It was wrought of broken trust and fed by Wuncler's voice as it swirled through the gloom breathing hatred into his ear,

"_It seems that killing your parents wasn't enough to quell ICA's blood thirst,"_

Those words, those damning binding words caused him more anguish than the lash from a Devil's Crown ever could. They made him want to tumble to his hands and knees and howl his ruin to the heavens, to curse the angels that so ruthlessly allowed his parents to be torn from him, and damn Erath for leaving him here and allowing him to remain bound to this hell pit in wretched existence.

Then there was Gin's treachery, his broken promise of never abandoning him. Those empty words and hollow vows as meaningless as the Creed had unleashed a raw seething fury of vengeance that quelled everything else and narrowed his focus to a lethal point. He seized upon that blazing asperity before he could drown in his own grief, clutching it against his soul as he had many times except now he let it devour him.

His breath snared in his throat and he tilted his head back reveling in the feeling, marveling in how it made everything fade to a dull listless ache.

"_Why…why have I wasted so much time on expensive liquor narcotics when this smoldering wrath is more effective than anything that has passed my lips or slipped from a syringe into my veins?" _

The resounding sallow voice of his grandfather whispered against this dim austral haze, beckoning to him; leading him along the corridors of memories, feeding his ire, gleefully flinging open portals that has been wrought by the hands of heedless disregard and sealed with the silver bliss of ardor.

_ICA killed my parents. _

_Gin is part of ICA._

_He left me for them to take…. _

He drew in a deep breath and pain flared though his chest curling up his neck to settle behind his eyes. The specter voices of Gin, Erath and his grandfather suddenly clashed together, entwining and condemning.

"_Love you Eddie baby…always will I will neva leave you," _

"_Filth breeds filth," _

"_Cast your gaze closer to home," _

He flicked his gaze to the grandfather clock as it chimed its Victorian waltz in the corner. The time worn, dusty music of Bach spun past him and once more shreds of memory began to whirl like dancing lovers across his conscious.

_Gin was standing before him his arms braced against the door frame the pious white of his shirt stained with blood, ripped open from the collar to his waist reveling the faint glimmer of his Silverballers and the faded lines of old scars. The scent of scorched metal, gun smoke and death draped across him like a cowl, drifting from his body in smoky tendrils. Ed had reached out and softly traced a bruise that coiled in dark contrast against Gin's pale throat. _

"_Gin baby…wha' happened?"_

_The question slipped from Ed's lips unheeded just as it had many times before when his lover had come back to him bruised and broken. Fingers, sticky with blood the Ed was certain wasn't Gin's had closed around his wrist and gently pulled his hand away. _

"_He's like a wolf Ed, a wolf waiting ta rip out mah throat on tha merest fancy." _

_The words were spoken in the raspy tones of a scream torn throat in a corpses rattling timbre, a lifeless sound. It had caused Ed to flinch back, and close his eyes as Gin's hand slipped from his wrist to curl around his waist drawing him in a loose embrace. Clasped against Gin's chest Ed felt a terrible fear sweep over him. _

_ Who is this man, this stranger-lover, standing in front of me, holding me, dressed in tattered bloody clothes? The line from riddle from Erath suddenly jangled in his ears mocking him, teasing him, chanting over and over until he might go insane. _

_ Follow the wolf of the silver band._

_ Follow the wolf_

_He hardly felt Gin's fingers sweep up his neck and curl under his jaw slightly lifting his head for a gentle kiss. If anything the words seemed to increase from a whisper to a shriek. _

_ Follow the wolf_

_Who follows death…? _

_Almost swooning with panic Ed had lurched backwards dragging Gin though the door and into their bedroom. The blond had given him a slightly odd look reaching out and catching the doorknob closing the door before he fully stepped over the threshold. He glanced to Ed's hands which were twisted into the shreds of his shirt, this time it was his turn to ask the damning question. _

"_Ed…was wrong?" _

'_The voices in my head are screaming to loud,' _

_The thought caused an insane grin to stretch across his face and he unknotted his hands from Gins shirt turning away from him fighting the hysterical laugh that threatening to bubble from his mouth. _

'_Follow the wolf_

_Who follows death'_

'_SHUT THE FUCK UP!'_

_He slightly started when strong arms wrapped around his waist and he was pulled against his lover's lithe body. He felt the cool whisper of Gin's dog tags press against his back and a low voice murmur in his ear. _

_The chaos in his head gradually faded to silence, drowned to sleep by Gin's soothing tones. Calloused hands began trailing across his skin in random patterns roaming from his ribs to between his thighs, tracing over the swells and curves of Ed's muscles and stopping ever so often to toy with the similar steel pendants that hung from redhead's neck. The heir bit his lower lip when he felt gentle kisses languidly being spread across his shoulders. _

"_Please don' be mad at me Eddie baby,"_

_Ed drew in a choked breath, _

"_M' not pissed at you Gin…I'm afraid for you," _

_His hands entwined with the playful fingers skimming over his body, halting their progress and brought them up the rest above his heart. His accent lessened and for a moment the man that he concealed from the rest of the world took rein over his tongue._

"_I know what you are doing and I am frightened that one night you will not come back, and that it will be worse than scratches and bloody cloths…that it will lead to an early grave,"_

_He guided Gin hands higher and pressed languid kisses along the backs of his lover's fingers, trailing his lips up his arms releasing his grip and turned so that he was facing the blond. _

"_I have lost so much…please I cannot bear the thought of you bein taken from me as well," _

_Gin swallowed settling his grasp on Ed's waist and tilted his head down, kissing the red head with the devotional abandon of a dying man seeking one last sip from the elixir of life. He began whispering against the heir's lips, his kisses becoming frantic with each word that slipped from his mouth,_

"_I'll neva leave you Eddie baby, neva s'long as I walk dis earth I will neva leave you, I love you more n'anything, more than m'life,"_

_Ed shivered as Gin's warm breath rolled down his throat and shoulders his hips jerking forward when the blond slipped his knee between his legs, entwining their bodies in a lovers embrace. Nimble fingers danced along the edge of Ed's pants, moving over the button before tauntingly slipping between the seam and zipper, teasing along the metal teeth before finally withdrawing to wander over the redhead's backside. _

_Ed shuttered groaning into Gin's mouth, his arms winding around the blonds neck, his fingers drifting over the braids that bound his lover's hair back from his face. He felt Gin smile into their kiss and somehow pulled him closer to his bloodied body. Somewhere in a condemning rational part of his mind were the whisperings that he should be revolted by this, by wanting to share his body with a killer who was often blood streaked and reeked of death. Then a twisted part of his psyche wrapped its hands around that pitiful reasoning and strangled it into silence. _

_The tattered remains of Gin's shirt slipped from his shoulders and pooled at his feet, but Ed's hands hesitated as they brushed over the belt that held his Silverballers. Still clutching his lover against him Gin shifted his grip and slipped one hand between their bodies his fingers swiftly unclasping the silver hasp. The lethal weapons slide from around his tapered hips, his wound the belt around his wrist and returned his hand to its previous position. _

_Noticing how Ed flinched when the algid stainless steel brushed against the flesh of his back. The redhead made an odd sound and pressed his face against the hollow of Gin's throat. He turned his head and softly kissed the heir's temple, _

"_Take a shower with me Eddie baby?" _

_He felt Ed nod against the curve of his neck and shoulder and reluctantly released him. His guns still wrapped his wrist, his other hand entwined with Ed's he lead them into the bathroom. The redhead blinked as the lights flicked on and noticed that as the blond laid his Silverballers on the counter that he averted his eyes from his reflection even turning his back to the mirror as he stripped off his filthy cloths. _

_Ed shamelessly stared as his lover undressed, hungrily watching a silk fell from skin that was awash in the golden hue of the frosted sconce lights. Scars thin as spun lisle spilled from his throat in random jagged scrawls. Some were and shallow others seemed to have been gouging and deep slashed frighteningly close to vital arteries. Past wounds from slicing blades, lesions from stray bullets, and torments from razor keen fiberwire. Seeing the damage that had been wrought on his lover's form sent a lash of anger whipping though his blood. _

"_Perhaps f'you spent less time starin you would be undress' by now Red," _

_The soft teasing voice cast the vile thoughts and the sting of rage from Ed's body. Murmuring a gentle apology he graced Gin with a coy smile before he began unbuttoning his shirt. He turned his eyes away from the blond allowing his own hands to brush over his stomach and trail from his naval to his pants. He bit his lip as his fingers stroked down from the fastening of his belt and across his groin. He gently moaned under his own ministrations his eyes sliding closed. He heard Gins breath hitch and the soft whisper of feet across marble. His hands were seized in a firm grip and his lips captured in a fiery kiss. It was almost violent in its intensity and Ed felt as though the breath was being devoured from his lungs. _

_Teeth nipped at his lips biting though thin flesh and drawing blood which was swiftly licked away. The fingers holding his hands still moved so they were only gripped with one hand, the other began to unbutton Ed's pants with such haste the zipper was almost broken. He began to walk backwards catching Ed as his feet snared in his discarding clothing almost causing both of them to tumble onto the floor. _

_Gin swaggered forward and managed to pirouette them around so he could sit on the edge of the tub and pulled Ed into his lap. He tilted his head nibbling of the heir's neck while he twisted around and fumbled to turn on the taps for the bath. Growling when he felt the redhead purposely shift in his lap rocking his hips forward, he suddenly swiveled around and unceremoniously dumped Ed into the half full bath. _

_Laughter spilled from his lips at the poisonous glare he got from the heir and slipped in so that he was knelling over the redhead. He tenderly kissed his lover in apology stretching out so that he was resting against Ed's body. Ed arched into the caress tasting the mirth that still lingered in Gin's mouth,_

"_S'been so long since I'h heard you laugh Gin," _

_The blond grinned though it seemed a bit strained, and reached behind him to turn off the water. He rested his forehead against Ed's his fingers brushing against the redheads inner thighs grinning when the body beneath his squirmed and a chuckle welled from his lover's throat. _

"_An' I'h could say the same f'you Red," _

_Gin leaned down and tilted his head running his tongue along Ed's collar bone speaking against the heirs flesh. _

"_I'hv missed it so much you are beautiful when you laugh….," _

_He trailed off and began to leisurely thrust his hips, _

"_When you moan….,"_

_He lapped at the redheads slightly parted lips and Ed gasped marveling at how well their bodies moved and fit together shuttering each time his length pressed against Gin's. The blond's words washed over him like the warm water the cascaded over his body each time moved against him. He longed to close his eyes and get lost in the pleasure that was sizzling though his body stealing all coherency from his thoughts. But he couldn't tear his eyes away from his lovers cerulean gaze and was disappointed when Gin tilted his head and bowed it to the side shifting his weight to get better leverage. Ed felt a low seething heat begin to coil in his belly and felt Gin's body began to tremble with the beginnings of his climax. _

_Still his lover's voice fluttered to his ears breathless with lust and tinged with adoration,_

"_When you come," _

_Ed felt the tension that had wound around his so tightly suddenly sever, his back arched lifting his and Gin clear of the water the fringes of his vision edged with blackness. Over the roar of his heart he heard Gin groan and his body go slack and Ed knew that he had tumbled over the brink with him. _

_ Ed stood facing the window that looked out onto the star swept courtyard below the gardens of the manor his shoulders still sparkling with the water from their bath. He wore a pair of loose cotton pants that were slung low on his hips and his hair, fiery even in the blood light had taken on a darker hue of cerise. He watched night a moment longer before shifting his gaze to a small picture of his father, he reached out a touched his father's image without thought running his fingers along portrait of a face that was so much like his own reflection. _

_ "Y'miss 'im don you Ed?"_

_ The redhead felt a bitter smile creep across his face, _

_ "Yeah Gin…sometimes I'h do miss im, so much that I wish I could die…n otha times s'like m'glad he isn't here ta see what I'h made of myself, an then there are days when I curse im f'leavin me here…alone." _

_ He had almost choked on that last word as images of Erath assaulted him with the deadly swiftness of an assassin's blade. He felt Gin's hand come to rest on his shoulder turning his around so that he was facing him. He felt the blonds fingers caress down his face, their eyes locked and Gin knelt before him. Like a knight of old pledging his life to his king Gin laced his fingers with Ed's and softly kissed them, _

_ "You'er neva goin ta be alone Ed…not s'long as I'h am here wit you I made you a promise earlier tonight an those words were not spoken idly. I vow…on my life that I'h will neva leave you." _

_ Against his will Ed felt tears slip from his eyes and a low sob fell from his lips. The next time he would hear Gin's voice would be in the atrium, comforting him from his Grandfathers cruelty it would also be the last time he would speak with his lover._

The song ended and the hour began to toll severing the threads of his thoughts; he blinked the scene playing before his eyes vanishing. His anger had faded along with the memory but he could still sense it glowering in the pits of his soul. Mingling with this was an abounding sense of reverence. He felt his bones crawl underneath his skin as another understanding slammed into him.

_I have taken a life._

He felt disgust and loathing breath against his neck and Erath's words trickle down his spine burning him like brimstone.

"_Set your own path become something more than a blood hungry mercenary…."_

This mingled with crippling shame and knowledge he had failed the man who had stepped in to take his father's place and had tried to shove away what had made his grandfather a killer.

_ Murderer_

Moonlight crept across the room; slipping between the half drawn velvet curtains it spun across the room tinged with the dusky threads of shadows. This entwined in a celestial fusion of noctivigant radiance that cascaded over Ed's trembling form, washing half his body in silver strands of gossamer light.

_Life taker_

The other half was cast into the blessed darkness and concealing shadow hidden from his eyes, cleaved in twain by the heavens.

Propped up in the corner was a Victorian mirror, a relic that had once held the reflection of his great grandfather now captured his own ghastly image. He listlessly stared at his bloody reflection meeting eyes were as lifeless as carved malachite that glared ruthlessly back at him.

'_The eyes of a Scourge,'_

He didn't want to look upon that figure, did not want to see what he had become. But he could not tear his eyes away from the young man that sat slumped forward peering at him from the starlit sliced gloom of the night.

The sickly sweet scent of gore lingered on his body, seeped into his cloths and flesh; so with each shallow breath he drew in the memories came roaring back at him. The sound of the assassin's voice slithered into his ears horrid and rasping lurched at him though the darkness. He closed his eyes groaning though blood stained teeth, trying to ward off the hellish visions.

His shirt had been torn open at the collar; ripped apart by his would be killer as he tried to wrench himself from Ed's grip. Bruises and razor thin cuts decorated his upper arms and neck from where the assassin had gripped and clawed at him in a frantic effort to escape. Then there was the fleeting feeling of fresh blood trickling thick and warm between his fingers, running in rivulets down his arms, dripping from his hair, drenching his hands. How many times had he seen Gin like this? Ed now understood why Gin often refused to look at himself in a mirror. Understood that his lover could not bear to look at his reflection because every time he did a hitman was staring back him stained with the blood of his victims. Death dressed in a silk suit,

'_The body of an assassin,"_

"_I'm sorry…,"_

He internally flinched as the thought whispered against his mind like a filthy curse. An empty absolution, a declaration made to a dead man who couldn't hear the gentle plea, but still bore a presence in violent memory.

He had slain a young man with his bare hands, stabbed the life from a body that was not much older than his and left behind a mutilated corpse. Images of the previous hours snapped against him, and he saw his reflection jerk. As though he had been struck violently across the face

_He had been forcefully dragged from the room by his grandfather's men, the sanctuary of his parents now desecrated by the shadow of death. As they pulled him away from the mangled mess that lay at his feet he had glimpsed his gore distorted reflection in the hallway mirror. A creature in all its wild ferocity was staring back at him though gleaming viridian eyes that were much like his own. _

_Seeing his ravaged image had caused something inside him to break and the consuming fury that had been ripping though his body released him from its taloned grasp. In shock he had stumbled and fallen, the grip of his grandfather's elites to weak and reluctant with fear to keep a firm grip on his body. _

_He landed heavily his hands smearing trails of blood across the dirty floor; a sob arched against his throat and had tumbled from his lips as a broken scream. He was half aware of the weary step of his escorts backing away from him, and the shift of their silk jackets as their fingers uneasily curled around the handles of their guns. The insane thought that they were going to shoot him sliced though the madness and he almost laughed. _

_ But the sound of long slide's being pulled back was absent, and only his ragged breathing broke the silence. They allowed him to stay that way for the span of many moments, knelt in the cold dusty starlight, the essence of the moon washing over his blood glistened body in an holy ethereal glow. In those moments fear and grief quietly entwined themselves around his body laden with the frantic silence of panicked dread. _

_He wasn't aware of how long they left him silently weeping in the dust, only that there was a sharp barking order from his grandfather and their hands were on his shoulders again roughly hauling him to his feet. This time he didn't lose his footing and stagger to his knees like a profit seeking forgiveness. All he could think of was how this was it had been when he had joined the Special Ops._

_How the smell of blood never was fully washed from the heavy fabric his cloths, the metallic copper scent that seemed to compliment the tang of the heated steel from his semi automatic. The horrid reek of gore clung to him now as it did then and in his brief delirium turned to one of the elites certain that he was his second lieutenant as asked him if the rest of the soldiers had survived the ambush too. _

_The only answer he received was the fingers on his shoulder tightening to an almost painful grip. He continued to slip in and out of madness in the brief moments it took him to get to his grandfathers private study. When they had reached the office he had been into the ornamented chair and hastily left alone his personal escort glad to be rid of their unpredictable burden. The only thing that Ed was aware of was the sound of the dead bolt slamming into the place as the door was locked from the outside._

_ He had stared at the barred door a moment before turning his face away to look at the hidden side portal that led to his grandfather's bedroom. Going to check if it were locked as well would have been a waste of precious energy and there was little point in it he knew that it would be locked. So he was endurance vile in his own home shackled to the memories that quietly stalked thought the hallways. He smirked and lolled his head back to stare at the ceiling watching the shifting shadows though half open eyes, and drifted into a brief fitful sleep._

The fucking clock had awoken him to nightmare memories and to his skin crawling with dried blood. Imprisoned in the pinnacle of all the turmoil, bitterness and hatred a chamber where his grandfather conducted his sordid business of taking lives this where he had slain three men and sliced out their tongues to send a warning. How many men had died in here, how many lives had been signed away in ink and blood?

_Now another room as been baptized in blood_

He physically recoiled as the thought whispered across his mind jerking back so forcefully that he almost tipped his chair backwards. That was the cause of the terror he had seen reflected in their eyes. He was used to others cowering at his presence because of his wealth, influence, and temper. There was always the unspoken threat that he could always steal away their livelihood and make their lives a living hell, but never had there been the raw terror of him snatching away their lives.

This knowledge that his grandfather's elite, his agents, his hitmen were afraid of him shook him to the very core of his being. Was this what it was like to be an assassin… was this what Gin and Erath readily embraced and accepted as part of themselves, as part of their souls?

Ed clenched his teeth in frustration and in a fit of panicked madness began to frantically scratch at his arms and hands hissing when the wounds there were torn open. The screams were coming back at him twisting along the through the silence, seeping around the locked door and grating against his skull.

They howled and curled though the corridors of his mind the gurgled wails of the dying assassin were echoing in the room tearing against his soul. And he was lying at Ed's feet again, writhing and arching in death on the floor choking on his own blood as it filled his mouth and spilled from the gaping holes in his neck. Ed gagged as he felt the velvet caress of unconsciousness creeping around his vision. Blinking as the room started to spin and the edges of reality became distorted and hazy. He tried to draw in a breath but the air was too thick, too heavy with the smell of fresh blood, burdened with screams, and the sweet smell of Death.

'…_become something more than a blood thirsty mercenary…."_

It took a great effort to lean forward and not pass out; the floor was slipping from beneath his feet, crumbling away into a blackened abyss. He gripped the ornate carvings on the chair with his torn hands in an attempt to regain some semblance of a grip on a world that was quickly tumbling from beneath him. He retched as bile suddenly lurched behind his teeth seeping into his mouth choking and acrid. He softly groaned his eyes slipping shut and after a few moments of balancing on the edge of oblivion the feeling of falling passed away and the darkness receded.

'_Insane…I am going fucking insane,'_

Ed snorted at the thought, a crazed smile crawled across his mouth, and he laughed. It was an unsettling, harsh sound like the last breath of a dying man who has found his own death to be amusing. It rattled hollow against his teeth and he cradled his head in his blood smeared hands clenching his jaw against the crypt dry laughter as it spun into gentle sobs.

All the rage and grief that he had so carefully concealed from his Grandfather came tumbling forth. It seemed that even as his body had swiftly healed his ravaged soul had been slow to mend its self and the wounds there were fragile and easily ripped open. And now he was weeping like an abandoned child in his grandfathers fucking office, the very citadel of his hatred.

For the first time since his parents had been so mercilessly taken from this earth, a yearning feeling to join them in death consumed him. He had nothing, everything precious had been stripped from him, his parents, Gin, and now it seemed that ICA wished to add his name to their ledger of the dead.

He raised his head as he heard the door softly creak open, and instinctually corrected his posture, almost choking at the searing pain that twisted from his chest to his throat as he straightened his back. Wuncler slowly strolled into the room leaving behind him the lingering smell of cigar smoke, cologne and blood. The older man seemed oblivious to his grandson's presence and went to stand in front of the fire place with his back to Ed. His head slightly tipped back to look at the portrait of the White Chapel.

There was gentle click and a lick of fire briefly speared though the darkness painting Williams face with a fiery glow. Wuncler snapped the silver lighter shut and took a long drag from his fresh cigar, the smoke rose in wispy tendrils curling around his head like translucent horns. Wuncler allowed the silence to creep by for many moments savoring the sounds of Ed's labored breathing. He stared up at the image of his father, and smiled. This was just all so fucking perfect.

He tilted head toward Edward,

"This man built the foundation for the Wuncler name…when he was your age he had already established himself as a ruthless entrepreneur merciless in his dealings with businessmen and even more cruel to the men he was paid to kill."

The words drifted up with the smoke drifting from his grandfather's mouth and hung there echoing in the silence like a scream. Edward remained quiet his eyes fixed on his grandfathers back carefully watching him,

"He was an assassin signing his name with ink by day and fulfilling contracts with blood by night. He taught me the true trade of the family a profession that has stretched back from the bloody battle torn ages of the Crusades, a trade that unfortunately had been forgotten…until he resurrected it."

Wuncler suddenly turned smoke curving behind him like scythe. His hungry gray eyes settling on Ed and for once they were not narrowed in vicious disgust or seething with malicious disdain.

Instead Wuncler was regarding him with a type of admiration, and fierce pride…it was a terrible, consuming stare. A searing gaze that he had often reserved for Gin after he had successfully completed a contract, or had given his benefactor a glimpse of the blood thirsty assassin that was so carefully concealed beneath a silk Georgiou Armani suit.

Long ago Wuncler had dismissed any hope of Ed becoming part of the brotherhood that he and his father had been a part of the unfortunate death of his parents had twisted his grandson's personality and cast him a long another path leading him away from the disciplined elitist destiny brimming with promise and power.

The superior potential that Ed had displayed in his youth had faded over the years leaving behind a tormented soul that seemed bent on self destruction and with his grandsons death so would the demise of the Silentiumbari. His coveted empire that had almost been stolen from him when his son had been slain that he had labored to keep within his grasp that had been rebuilt on the dead men's corpses.

Ed's death had hadn't been factor when he had Gin, the blond had been a bottomless resource of information his services as a hitman had been a bonus but his knowledge and connections were precious and easily attained. He had been so fucking close to getting what he had desired then ICA had to fuck it all up take Gin away and almost kill him and his grandson in the process.

Now that seemed like a blessing because Wuncler had finally been able to witness the vicious rekindling of the young man he had thought had perished those long years ago with his parents and just like in Gin he saw a weapon of flesh and blood that he could utilize and forge to his own liking. Edward would be his bringer life, his reaper of death, the very presence that would fully resurrect the Silentiumbari and finish what Gin had begun.

The gore spattered youth before him was no longer the rebellious, incompetent little fuck that had plagued with him disappointment, failure and mischief for the past seven years. It seemed that boy had died the night when his fragile world had exploded in a burning fury of blood and shattered scorching metal that slammed into his chest and had almost torn his soul from his body.

The man sitting before him was a blood soaked broken killer, shorn of everything that he had ever held precious to him, a soul that had fallen from grace so many times that it refused to get up and stagger onward. Now Edwards very essence lay, destroyed at Wuncler's feet waiting for perfection.

If ICA had only known what type of assassin they had unwittingly wrought, a killer that would be ruthless and cruel, a hitman that had nothing to gain and absolutely _nothing_ to lose.

Wuncler smirked,

"My father taught me how to cut a man's throat with the razor edges his own vices, and if that didn't work a knife in the dark or a bullet though the eye would be just as efficient. I learned how to manipulate my opponent's weaknesses to my favor, how to deceive and corrupt and I willingly passed these skills down to my son who accepted them eagerly…."

With every smoke tainted word that left his grandfathers mouth Ed could feel a cold fury spilling into him so swiftly that he momentarily forgot his aching body and thrust himself up into a standing position. His body twitched in pain and he settled his eyes on his grandfather his voice a harsh whisper.

"No…my father was not fuckin' like you"

Wuncler laughed, it was an amusing sound brimming with mirth and held within it a wicked mocking tone.

"Don't lie to yourself Edward, your father was a cruel killer who spilled blood when I ordered him to and what's more he did so without any hesitation or regret. "

As he spoke Wuncler began to slowly walk forward, his hungry eyes sliding across Ed's bloody body, he halted a few feet from his grandson,

"He _was _me Edward, he was my mirror image, I made him into the man he was and the man you _thought _you knew…"

"_Liar!" _

Wuncler felt the dull sting of annoyance snap across his amusement and his smile tightened to a thin sneer,

"He was an assassin… a killer…he craved blood…."

He saw Ed subtly shift his stance and easily caught his wrist as his fist arched around to strike him across the face. He viciously wretched Ed forward twisting his arm around and shoved him forward sending him sprawling into the chair. Still gripping Ed's wrist he jerked him upright and slammed him into the edge of his desk. There was the delicate tinkle of glass as crystal ink bottles toppled over and fell to the floor.

A silver tray containing a set of engraved silver pens, a letter opener, and bottle of bourbon were over turned spilling across the stacks of papers ruining them. Wuncler disregarding this and mercilessly pressed his weight into Ed's back forcing him to bow forward in a grotesque parody of a lovers embrace.

"My, my but this seems familiar doesn't it?"

Ed thrashed and writhed against him trying to use raw strength fed by hatred to force his grandfather to release him. Blood filled his mouth from where his teeth cut into his mouth from being thrown against the chair. Anguish lashed against his him like Scourges whip and he felt weariness consume him; and his strength swiftly faded leaving in its wake a crippling frailty that was edged with panic.

"Except Erath isn't here to save you,"

Ed's breath snared in his throat and his vision began to dim his grandfathers words came him in a distorted and thick. Only when he began to choke and sputter on his own breath and blood did his grandfather relent. Ed lay still, stunned from the breath slowly being driven from his body. He felt that horrid raging wraith begin to stir in the darkness sparked back into life by the vague shadow of impending death.

The wild fury that he had exiled back into its abysmal pit began to claw its way over the edge. Howling it straining against the chains of self restraint that he had forged to keep it imprisoned, he inhaled a deep breath trying to still his mind and torrid emotions.

He would not allow his grandfather to control him, to unleash his rage and make him into a killer. His eyes flicked across the table and came to rest on one of the silver etched pens that had rolled across the desk when he had upset the tray.

"Not here to show mercy on yo-,"

Wuncler felt the body beneath him coil and twist around, and he suddenly found himself staring into eyes that were blazing with hatred and malice. There was the scraping sound of metal sliding against polished wood and a flash of silver. Wuncler released Ed's wrist and took a graceful pace back. But he had underestimated how swift Ed could move and how accurately he could adjust the distance between them. The air in front of him sang as it was cleaved in twain and then he screamed.

Ed snarled pushing all his weight forward trying to drive the pen deeper into his grandfather's shoulder. He shoved Wuncler back causing the older man stagger to his knees and bow forward one hand braced against the floor.

Ed felt a grim sense of morbid satisfaction seeing his grandfather knelt before him. How many times had he been the one cowering in front of the older man with his nose broken, his mouth bleeding, his face cut from where he had been brutally struck across the face. A consuming sense of power over took him and he took a pace forward.

Wuncler made no move to pull out the pen that Ed had impaled in his shoulder. His grandson may have been fleet of hand but he lacked the skills of a true assassin, he didn't have the experience honed to a deadly keenness from years of constantly dancing with death and dodging bullets.

He remained slumped on the floor his eyes flicking upward when he saw Ed move toward him, his grandson was about to learn a very agonizing lesson when it came to torturing a victim. He slightly shifted and felt the pain twisting against his body fade, the world around him dimmed and he focused only on Ed.

He heard Ed's breath change and the rustle of silk as he drew his leg back to kick him across the face. In one elegant movement Wuncler brought himself up on one knee slamming his clenched fist into Ed healing chest. There was wet hollow sound and he heard Ed bite back a scream. The redhead staggered back from him his face a mask of pain and shock his hands clutching him chest.

In the same motion Wuncler stood his fingers curling around the pen protruding from his chest and tore it free, flinging it disdainfully at the crumpled form of his grandson. He gave Ed a vicious kick in the ribs spitting blood and curses at the panting youth.

Ed moaned hot blood filling his mouth and he retched gagging on the choking pain that it caused. His vision wavered, and it felt he had been shot in his chest all over again, as if there were still smoldering bullets buried in his body. He heard a voice a soft as the whisper of the cowl of death hiss against the darkness,

"I have had enough of your insolence you petulant child,"

He felt a hand close on his shoulder in an iron grip and another slick with blood clutch at his neck and haul him upright. He was mercilessly thrown in front of the fireplace facing William's portrait. He landed on his back coughing as more blood was forced into his mouth.

Strong fingers twisted in his tattered shirt and he was arched backwards forced to gaze at the picture of his great grandfather. The scream that he had swallowed back broke free, blood heavy and terrible but it was ignored.

Words spilled against his ear like molten smoke,

"Look at him Edward…you are both so much alike…your cruelty and blood lust have no bounds. You are shackled to this killing instinct just as your father and I am. Accept it embrace what you are…."

Teeth clenched in pain and helpless rage, Ed rolled his gaze to the side,

"_Never…," _

This reply earned him a sharp twist of the neck and he was suddenly swung around so that he was facing the mirror the rested against the far wall.

"Never…never…never…. You ripped a man's throat out with nothing more than your bare hands. Look at yourself… bloodstained and broken. I could fix that….I could sculpt you into the greatest assassin to tread on this earth since the Brotherhood of the Crusades."

"Fuck you,"

The grip in his hair tightened and his head was pulled backwards he flinched as his grandfather pressed his lips to his ear and warm blood dribbled down the side of his neck.

"While your adverse determination is commendable it's starting to fucking piss me off,"

"And what are you going to fucking do about it? Whip me again?"

Ed gave him a snarling laugh and spoke though clenched teeth,

"Because that worked so well last time…you can't break me cock sucker and that's what pissing you off ...fucker."

He heard his grandfather growl and his neck painfully arched back and his hair was forcefully yanked back.

"Rein in your tongue you miserable little bitch and open your eyes, you can't escape what you are no matter how hard you try to flee from it. If you are not an assassin then you have one for a mentor, if not a mentor then you take one for your lover. You're drawn to it Ed….,

The grip that wound though his hair clenched and for a moment Ed thought that he going to get his face shoved though the mirror. Instead the fingers holding him loosened and he was released to slump forward on his hands and knees,

"You fight me like you have something to protect, look how fucking worthless you are…you have nothing, you are nothing. Just a blood smeared impudent fuck on his hands and knees where he belongs. Gin left you Edward he left you to die for his mistakes just like he left your parents."

Wuncler inwardly smirked at the how suddenly still Ed had become the moment he uttered those words. He slightly titled his head to one side at the broken whisper that tumbled from his grandson's lips.

"N-no you're a liar he would never…he didn't even know my parents. How dare you try to take him and make him into something for me to hate. You used him…used him to kill for you just like my father."

The older man closed his eyes as though he were trying to ward off a terrible memory his voice was soft,

"Why do you think he followed my orders to relentlessly Ed? He was aware I knew that he killed my son and that I was about to fulfill my vendetta against him and his pathetic agency. He begged me on his knees to spare his life he broke his oath to his patron he is a traitor Edward…a liar."

Wuncler's words flowed over Ed like tendrils of inferno flame and Gin was suddenly before him on bended knee gazing up at him with unwavering intense devotion clutching his hands in his own.

'_I love you Eddie baby I promise I will never leave you, you will never be alone,' _

_Liar_

_Liar_

_Fucking liar_

"No…no please…stop,"

"He is a coward Edward and he who stands against our name to leave us to drown in our blood deserves to die a coward's death."

As he spoke Ed had managed to get to his feet and was now leaning against the mirror his forehead resting against the glass his eyes downcast from his reflection. Wuncler left him that way his mind swirling with a tempest of questions that strained the image of his lover. The older man slipped from his office to his bedroom. Hardly able to contain his glee he slipped out of his ruined jacket and silk shirt hardly feeling the ache of the hole that had been gouged into his shoulder.

Love was such a treacherous whore the evil bitch bred the bastard sons of suicide and vendetta at the slightest doubt of devotion. The wavering of faith could easily bring even the most fortuitous men to their knees; it fed off of rage, turned lies into truths and would be the undoing of his grandson. He tossed his blood smeared cloths into the hamper and flicked on the bathroom hardly assessing the damage that his grandson had caused him. But he was far to elated to give a fuck. For the first time in many years he had gained a glimpse of how Ed had once been without the outrageous street clothes or his accent twisted with gangster slang.

He was just buttoning up a clean shirt when he heard the door to his bedroom click open. We walked into his bedroom to find Ed standing at one of the arched windows with his hands clasped behind his back. He was still dressed in his bloodied cloths, but there was something about his stance that told Wuncler something had changed. When his grandson turned to face him his eyes glinted with the steel hue of verdigris poison.

"What must I do to avenge my parents."

His grandfathers voice rang with promise and certainty,

"Become my assassin,"


	4. Rouges and Rising Empires Part One

"_When God is gone and the Devil takes hold who will grant mercy on your wretched soul? Words chanted in the ancient elegant language of the Romans, gilded words that often rise to rafters in cathedrals and churches spoken from the pious lips of priests, an utterance of comfort to the sinner who may have strayed from the safety of the flock and into wolf infested woods. But what of the saint turned slayer willingly falling into the temptation of vengeance without regret, willingly embracing the demons that lurk in his soul? He must take heed and take caution when he enters this gloom shrouded pit, he must be careful of the daggers he shoves into unguarded backs and the blood that stains his hands. Sometimes those victims do not perish and they become just as terrible as their assassins. The predator becomes the hunted and he tries to hide in the darkness that cloaked him from the eyes of the ones he so cruelly tried to kill. But shadows are treacherous and the same darkness that conceals them also hides the blade seeking their throat. They may fall to their knees and beg for mercy, try to flee for that road they once tread seeking the protection of their God but the Devil deals a swift hand and always comes to collect his due. Pleas will fall on deaf ears, unheeded, unheard. So I ask again…who will have mercy on your soul" _

_~Edward Wuncler, Novice to the House of Wuncler _

_February 21, 2009~_

"_The life of the assassin is a difficult one, he often yearns for the touch, love and devotion of another, but the call of the blade, and the summoning of death pulls to strongly on the threads of his soul and grievously he will turn his back on everything he cherishes and embrace his ruin…" ~Erath Grey~_

_

* * *

_

Frigid morning light cascaded though the half open curtains of Wuncler's office, its golden essence spilling across the many papers strewn about on the polished surface of his oaken desk. The patron of the third house in the Legion leaned back in his chair a cup of Irish coffee hooked on his fingers. His sere gray eyes carefully tracing over the documents lay out before him. In another part of the office the idle whisper of a page being turned could be heard, followed by the sound of metal singing across wood, then silence.

He glanced up from his studies his gaze briefly lingering on Ed before returning to their task. For the first time in many years he felt his old sense of imperious pride returning to him, and it was all because of his grandson. The change that Ed has gone though in the past four months had been impressive if not miraculous. He was no longer the arrogant youth that constantly defied him in the loud mocking scream of a street gangster to the shame of the Wuncler name. He had become a young refined aristocrat who spoke in gentle subdued tones that complimented a lethal cunning and calm poise.

What he lacked for in experience he made up for in savior faire and an unshakable confidence. Wuncler was swift to notice this and had begun to request his presence on certain jobs, utilizing Ed's defiance to fit his own needs. Because Wuncler was under the edict of the two upper houses he was forced to attend contract and logistics meetings while Carbellot and Arach only sent their representatives as heralds in their stead. It was an act of humiliation toward Wuncler a constant reminder that that his house was in essence just an extension of their own agencies. The patron had endured this silently his agile mind always seeking a way to usurp the power that they held over him. And when Ed had begun showing his finesse and skill with weapons Wuncler was certain he had found his gambit against Carbellot and Arach, and he wasn't disappointed.

It was the redhead's anger that Wuncler took rein over, twisting it in a way that allowed him to exert his control over his grandson. On three previous occasions Wuncler had been very pleased to have Ed at his side, the redhead had become a very intimidating presence. Neither showing emotion or gracing any certain person with words he would simply settle at his grandfathers right hand; as though he had always been there, radiating an unspoken threat that he would gladly slit anyone's throat who would try and deny it. He always remained the epitome of calm and prevailed as a steadfast guard at his grandfather's side. Meeting the eyes of trained assassins with unflinching placidity and devil may care smirk tugging at his lips. As though he were yearning to bestow a demonstration for the benefit of his grandfather and all the assassins in attendance a taste of his merciless cruelty.

The elites that handled these councils would meticulously watch his grandson and during their last audience, to Wuncler's immense delight, had tested Ed's resilience. The previous occasions had not been contract meetings but an exchange of information regarding the number of assassins each house held under their command and were conducted at the manor in his private office.

The older man had no reason to tell his grandson the shame their sire name endured during these gatherings because they took place in such an intimate setting, he was sure that if he reveled to his grandson their subservient position it would end in spilled blood. He had already replaced his quarters once and didn't wish to do so again. He was not yet ready to sever the leash that the other two houses had fastened around his neck. He had finally gained a level of trust with Carbellot and Arach bowing to their every whim making them believe he was still weakened from the death of his top assassins and from the loss of his son. They thought they had tamed wolf that had been howling at their gates but they had only made him more deadly, more cunning. He had drawn them within striking range so they couldn't escape when he chose to tear out their throats. So he held his tongue, waiting for the right moment to unleash his newly hewn weapon of rage.

He didn't have to wait long.

* * *

It had been an evening when the sun had just touched the horizon and the heavens had been jagged with ice. The frozen streets of the city silently slipped past the smoky glass of the Mercedes. Wuncler sat across from his freshly dressed grandson his hands clasped over the top of a silver walking cane. For once the saccharine scent of cigar smoke did not fill the warm air, nor did it wreath the older mans face. Cigars were for pleasure, and not business.

Ed sat in front of his grandfather his eyes turned to the window gazing out into the darkening night. He had chosen simple attire for the occasion selecting a simple black suit that was accented by the silken emerald tones of a tie that dyed his eyes a dark viridian hue. His hands were carefully folded in his lap his heated stare snapping to grandfather's face as he began to speak. Sitting in stoic silence as Wuncler explained the significance of this type of gathering and why he was always the only patron in attendance. Laying bare how shackled they were to the other two patrons due of the weakening of his house with the death of his son. Explaining that many of the assassins under his command were not his but rather served Arach and Carbellot. Even as he spoke Wuncler could distinguish the subtle signs of quiet anger that gripped his grandson. His jaw was clenched and his eyes narrowed to slits, the older man resisted the urge to grin.

Wuncler had decided that his conclave with the two reining houses would take place in one of his own jurisdiction in the elegant building where he had branded Gin as one of his own assassins. His grandson had never been there, and the older man intended on giving him the full experience of the power that their family now held.

The building loomed before them shards of glass against the icy heavens. Beneath the vaulted ceiling of the atrium Ed could see the glow of a gas light chandelier its hazy light spilled though the brumal mist casting everything in an eerie radiance. Flag stones the color of obsidian paved the way to the entrance glistening with melted ice and lined with furrows of snow. Ed was quick to slip out of the Mercedes before the vehicle had rolled to a stop trotting around to the other side and waving off the footman as he stepped out to attend Wuncler.

The older man readily accepted his grandsons out stretched hand softly grunting as he was pulled to his feet. He felt the warmth of his long over coat settle over his shoulders and his walking cane was gently placed in his hand. Ed walked slightly in front of his grandfather opening the door and escorting him inside briefly glancing at the assassins that stood on either side of the glass entrance.

They were dressed in matching suits of charcoal gray their guns visible on their hips. They stood to one side slightly inclining their heads murmuring low greetings to their patron and heir. Ed could see the symbol that has been branded into their wrists as they shifted back to resume their stances on either side of the entrance, their shadows dancing in the flickering light of the gas wrought iron chandelier in the atrium.

A soft gloom settled around them as they made their way into the center chamber. It was strangely quite as they moved farther into the darkness. Ed's breath sounded as a gentle whisper that stuttered to a sharp gasp. Ed was struck by the beautifully malevolent architecture rendered into a silent reverence by how little light there was; the only illumination coming from candelabra's or braziers their fires stoked to low seething embers. Thirty floors spiraled above him fading into shadow, ending in a glass dome that reflected the brumal sky caught in the cruel grasp of winter. Their footsteps and the click of his grandfathers cane echoed loudly against the agate marble floor which had been inlaid with gold to form the crest of Wuncler's house it twisted around creating the gapping maw of a dire wolf which pierced Ed's distorted reflection.

The air smelled of stainless steel, silk, and the gloom of night. Sconces flickered on the walls deepening the blackness and adding to the dark ambiance that seemed to permeate the very air. Here and there Ed could see the silhouettes of men reclining in the gloom and could feel their eyes following him as he and his grandfather walked to Wuncler's private chamber. The redhead felt an odd an odd sense of wicked excitement scrape down his spine his breath quickened and he felt his fingers twitch itching for the handle of a gun. One day he would be one of those men, an assassin of the night, able to meld and blend with shadow with terrifying ease. Wuncler's voice suddenly rang though his thoughts dragging him back to from his private thoughts.

"This is where I quarter some of my assassins when they are not handling contracts or have been wounded,"

Ed gave a brief nod casting his gaze back to the vast room behind them noticing that the dark shapes he had assumed were hitman were no longer there. His voice barely rose over the sound of their footsteps,

"Is it wise to invite elites from Carbellot and Arach to this place? It seems foolish to allow them here."

Wuncler gave an amused snort,

"You fret to much Edward the whole point is to invite them here, let their men tread the room we just crossed and be aware of the unseen eyes burning into their worthless carcasses."

He graced his grandson with a vicious smile,

"Imagine walking though the darkness and not knowing how many of my assassins are watching you from the shadows... how many of them have weapons trained on you…if they have been told to kill you now or later or let you live."

Without even looking Wuncler could tell that his grandson's grin mirrored his own,

"I understand…you want them to gain a sense of trepidation when they have to make deals with you and they will never know how many men you command."

"Preciously, its an intricate waltz we dance Edward and we have to be cunning enough to take the lead with out our partners knowing. This is just a subtle taste of some of the power I have regained."

He glanced at Ed his voice taking on a tone that bordered on madness, and he suddenly reached out gripping the redhead by the hand so hard that he winced,

"And you, my grandson, shall be the ultimate undoing of the two upper houses you will bring us back to power back to where be belong!"

The intensity of his words burned thought the darkness and he pulled Ed closer his other hand shifting to rest on the side of his grandson's face his fingers gripping the edge of Ed's jaw so that he was staring into searing green eyes that were still brimming with fury.

"You are the last hope for the Wuncler name do not let your fathers death be in vain do not let them defile his memory even further,"

The voice that reached Wuncler's ears was cruel a whisper so full of wrath that it sounded inhuman,

"I will not disappoint you, I will tear down the houses of Carbellot and Arach, I will make their assassins beg for death before I end their worthless lives."

"That is all I ask Edward,"

* * *

The council room that Wuncler had chosen was elegant, with darkness spilling into corners where flickering candlelight could not reach. Like many of Wuncler's private rooms there was a case of liquor and many comfortable armchairs scattered before the hearth. A huge oaken armoire sat on clawed feet in one corner its edges adorned with hand carved wolves roaming though the twisted forms of gnarled trees. Their eyes had been set with garnets that glimmered in the darkness like tiny points of fire. A grand portrait hung on the wall set in a heavy frame of silver gilded oak the image of thirty men were seated around a circular table the symbol of a chimera had been scored into its surface. Beneath each seated figure were graceful symbols painted in gold, which Ed assumed these were the sire names of each man. They were all adorned in different styles of armor and all bore the colors of onyx, scarlet and silver. Of all these men there was only one who was standing and seemed to possess an imposing presence. The title that had been fastened to the top of the frame read _The House of Thirty. _

"Magnificent is it not?"

Ed nodded his eyes still riveted to the picture,

"Who are they?"

He felt his grandfather move to stand at his side,

"No one is certain, rumors are heavy when it comes to this image. It is something the reining houses have quarreled over for many centuries. There have been many patron's who believe it is the birth of the brotherhoods, or one of the many council's that were held against the Knights of Templar."

He moved closer reaching his hand out to brush over a man, who was not seated,

"There is one thing I am certain about, that he is our ancestor,"

Ed's eyes settled on the long past assassin trying to find some of his features in face of his predecessor.

"What was he called?"

"Iergan the Gilded is what he was known by his companions as well as his enemies,"

His grandfather sighed withdrawing his hand,

"Before the church and her Templar's descended upon the Brotherhood with the unforgiving fury of God he was their patron, their rein and he was betrayed."

He was silent after that letting the quietness curl around them before he spoke again,

"That is all I know of him, and even less is known about the men under his command only that many of them turned traitor when Vatican came upon them."

Wuncler's voice was laden with bitter venom, his words laced with hatred,

"And we were cast into their crypts to rot and be forgotten,"

"Just like we are now under Arach and Carbellot?"

Wuncler laughed,

"Almost my grandson…but that is all going to change as soon as the clock strikes the hour."

He gave Ed shoulder a brief squeeze before moving to settle in one of the armchairs. There was a rustle of paper as he withdrew a stack of documents from a satchel that rested at his feet, leaving Ed with his thoughts.

Ed returned his focus to Iergan studying his features tracing his fingers over the image. His eyes were wide and the hue of tarnished silver coins set in a face that was gentle and lacked the cruelty of his present decedents. Long ringlets of ashen colored hair were pulled back from his face and spilled down past his shoulders. His mouth was quirked in a half smile of some long forgotten mirth; his hands were splayed against the table within easy reach of a double bladed halberd. He dressed in the same colors as all the other men gathered around the table but there seemed to be an added touch of extravagance to him. He had the aura of a ruler even a king; a man could easily snare the attention of his followers. Yet he had been cast into abandon by his brothers, sacrificed by them as penance for their own lives. It was odd how history had a way of repeating its self, odd how fate flung the past and present together entwining lives that were separated by the sand of time.

Ed shut his eyes turning away from his ancestor pushing back the anger that swelled against his throat, threatening to rob him of his breath. He began to survey the rest of the room his eyes skirting along its edges. Tapestries that were woven from gold and emerald thread hung on the other walls, one bearing the symbol of their house, the others threaded with ancient Celtic and Old English scripts. A chandelier forged from silver and dripping with crystal hung in the center of room, its electric lights remaining unlit.

In the center of then room a glass topped table dominated over all else, an oddity among the antiquity that swept though out room. Ed soon guessed its purpose it was so his grandfather could keep an eye on the other assassins in case they secretly drew their weapons. This was also the reason for the many mirrors that lined the wall strategically placed so that who ever sat the head of the table could view the entirety of the room with out having an agent standing guard every corner.

The clock had began striking the hour when the hitman of Carbellot and Arach arrived, their elites moving with the stealthy grace of shadows; their four Scead* were not to far behind flinging nervous glances back over their shoulders at the darkened atrium they just crossed. Ed saw each of them in, keeping a respectful distance and gracing the two Laedens* of each house with a brief nod. The two men didn't even acknowledge the young heir but took their seats without a word, their associates trailing in their wake. Wuncler stood at the head of the table waiting for the all the other hitman to take their chairs before he himself sat.

Ed causally took his place beside his grandfather, his eyes scanning the men before him with obvious disdain. The lesser hitmen of both houses were sitting rigidly in their chairs clearly unnerved by their passage though the dark to the meeting chamber. Their eyes dancing to the darkened corners of the room trying to peer into the shadows attempting to see if any assassins lurked in the gloom. Ed did little to conceal the smirk that curled at the corners of his lips he could almost taste the fear rolling off them.

Ed's eyes swept down the table and lingered on the Laeden of Carbellot unlike the two men seated beside him he retained a calm composure his lithe frame lazily sprawled in his seat. He was a tall cruel featured man with hair the color of a tempest midnight sky that spilled like ink down past his shoulders to his mid back in thick tresses. Even in the poor light Ed could tell how pale his eyes were like the ashen color of cinders that were flecked with pieces blue turquoise. A long jagged scar threaded from the side of his neck to his jaw, the remnant of a failed assassination. He was clad all in black the only gleam of color coming from the silver necklace that was fastened around his neck like a collar, its surface etched with the word Hraefen*.

The other Laeden was man of equal height to his fellow elite. But where the man from Carbellot had subtle somewhat alluring features, his were as sharp as a daggers blade and looked as though they had been hacked from marble rather then carved. His eyes were a strange dusky emerald tone and reminded Ed of dragon scales. His hair was a dark sanguine hue that was pulled back from his face by a silver clasp with a few stray strands falling over his eyes. The ink from several tattoos scrawled from the tips of his fingers past the cuff of his jacket curling into strange symbols and ancient runes. He was attired in an onyx Brioni suit with a scarlet undershirt adorned with scrolled silver buttons. A similar cincture was fasted around his neck, its surface etched with the word Draca*. The other men, the underlings, sat flanking their leaders one of them with a satchel strapped across his chest bearing the three insignia of each house.

The assassin from Carbellot was the first to speak his voice ringing clear against the gloom like the cry of a raven.

"The darkness is thick here Wuncler, can't afford to properly light this wretched building?"

His voice was condescending but held an under current of mocking laugher. Ed glanced to his grandfather expecting him to lash out at the arrogant man but to the redhead's mild surprise he simply shrugged off the comment,

"I apologize Iscaeld but my duties and influence do not extend to the heavens, I cannot control the weather and when it happens to cause black outs."

Iscaeld laughed it was lethal sound like a blade being sharpened against a welting stone,

"Ah Edward your dry wit has always amused me but you must remember the houses of Carbellot and Arach expect more of a courteous reception then traipsing into a dingy room when discussing contracts especially from a lesser house."

When his grandfather's first name fell from Iscaeld's lips Ed had almost balked. Once again he flicked his gaze to Wuncler recognizing the barely noticeable expression that passed across Wuncler's face; the fleeting shadow of rage, his right eye twitched and Ed could tell he was clenching his teeth.

"I didn't realize the that elites of the two legions were frightened of the dark?"

The words left Ed's mouth before he realized he even spoken them, and he suddenly found gaze locked with silver toned eyes. Iscaeld was staring at him in an odd way a half amused expression on his face. Before he could reply another voice suddenly slipped though the darkness, like a wisp of smoke rising to barely a whisper,

"No one was addressing you novice…I suggest you keep a civil tongue behind your teeth docga*,"

The insult stung the young heir almost as if he had been slapped across the face and he swung his smoldering gaze to look at the other red head his voice slicing through the tension like a knife his anger threatening to spill over. He drew in a deep breath through his nose and managed to smile quelling his wrath and slowly rose to his feet.

" Afraid of the shadows and lacking courtesy, what kind of Nieten* have Carbellot and Arach sent to us?"

The assassin snarled starting to his own feet his hand slipping into his jacket. The men around him tensed their actions mirroring their masters their fingers just inside their coats. Ed watched the other man with equal intensity settling his entire focus on the six men seated beneath him. The Scead's sitting around Iscaeld were also reaching for their weapons but a brief motion form their Leaden halted them.

"That is enough Volante do not waste your energy on indolent insults we are here to speak of business not to engage in a battle of wits against an apprentice assassin show some restraint,"

Volante spun to face him his voice dangerously low his fingers tightening around the hilt of his half sheathed stiletto,

" You your self would not take such an insult so idly the whelp needs to be taught some manners in how to speak when he is addressing his superiors."

Iscaeld sighed picking none committedly at something beneath one of his nails his voice losing its light tone to take on a darker more threatening edge,

"While I enjoy putting insolent children in their place it would be against Carbellot's and Arach's command to spill any blood over such a trifling matter. I know you don't want to incur their wrath Volante. Or have you forgotten what happened to the last elite that disobeyed your masters words?"

Volante hesitated flicking his eyes to Ed then back to Iscaeld who raised a silver brow. It did not escape his notice that the Leadon's hand was resting nonchalantly on the gun that was at his hip.

"I suggest you take care of this on your own time,"

The raven-haired assassin smiled at him with an unspoken challenge his ashen eyes gleaming with something more then amusement. Volante reluctantly drew his hand from his weapon and shifted his attention back to Ed,

"Be cautious docga, Iscaeld and Arach will not always be around to rein in my hand, its been a long time since my blade has tasted the blood from one bearing the Wuncler name,"

Ed bestowed him with a benign grin sweeping his arms before him in an exaggerated bow his voice holding a capricious tone,

"We shall see who has the honor of spilling first blood then,"

Volante granted Ed with a nasty smile before taking his taking his seat his voice taking on a edge keen with deadly promise,

"Yes we shall see won't we?"

He glanced at Iscaeld relaxing his posture purposely laying his hands in full view on the table. The tension that coiled though the room visibly eased but as Ed moved to sit he noticed that Iscaeld's hand not left his gun. His eyes still fixed on his brother assassin Iscaeld addressed Wuncler,

"Please forgive my associate he has a temper that matches his name. I say we speak of more pleasant things yes?"

The jesters voice had returned eerily merry and insouciant he beckoned to the Scead who still had the leather satchel strapped across his chest, Iscaeld glanced at Ed grinning then flicked his eyes to Wuncler

"Such as your payment for the crime against my master?"

There was the rustle of leather as the Scead with the messenger bag slipped it from his chest and unclasped the buckle. Within were thin rolls of hand pressed scrolls, sealed with obsidian wax stamped with a raven insignia. The Scead with drew these and quietly handed them to Iscaeld.

In a flash of silver a thin bladed knife appeared in the assassins hand he ran the edge along the partial opening of the parchment breaking the seal. The volute rolled open its surface covered in scrawling spidery handwriting. Iscaeld's pale eyes flicked over the paper his fingers making a dry sound as they absently ran down the page.

"It seems that some of your assassins have been trespassing into our territories with out permission?"

Wuncler grinned it was startlingly unpleasant,

"Yes,"

"Then you are aware of these transgressions,"

"I am very aware of the movement of my assassin's they acted on my whim,"

Iscaeld slightly tilted his head raising an elegant brow,

"Then you know the consequences, and the harsh reprimand for your oversights"

"Of course I do…

Wuncler shifted resting his elbows on the table, lacing his fingers together and slightly pressed them to his smirking lips,

"Though I have no intention of paying them."

This was greeted with a heavy silence and for the first time since the meeting began Ed saw the shade of anger briefly flit across Iscaeld's features.

"That isn't for you to decide Edward you _serve_ Carbellot and Arach, you answer to Volante and myself if you defy us then you defy them and I assure you, arrogance such as this will be greeted by swift punishment,"

Quiet laugher drifted across the table rolling down on the elites and their subordinates like the brumal whisper of winter.

"Ah I am afraid that the tense you used is wrong my dear Iscaeld. I used to serve Carbellot, Arach and his ignoble Leaden's. I used to suffer omitting their worthless carcasses into my most private quarters in my manor and endure the irritation of allowing them passage into my place of business. I used to have to have to withstand their revolting presence, I used to be quelled by promises of punishment"

There was the harsh sound of ripping paper as Iscaeld clenched his fingers shredding the delicate document. Anger didn't mar his handsome features but Ed could see it prancing behind his pale eyes and when he spoke his words were forced though clenched teeth.

"Edwar-,"

"Its Wuncler Iscaeld when you are in my presence you will address me by my sire name,"

Volante snorted his voice heavy with scorn,

"A sire name that is weak and means little,"

"He wasn't addressing you wyrm attend to your own advice and keep your forked tongue behind your teeth,"

"Heed your owntongue docga before I slice it out of your foul mouth,"

Ed laughed his voice sharpened to a keen point by a dismissive tone,

"An empty threat Volante, Iscaeld has your leash wrapped to tightly in his hands for you to do anything. Now sit and be silent like a good bitch or go bark at someone else your fucking voice irritates me,"

A flare of silver sliced through the tepid light and only Ed's honed reflexes saved his head from being cleaved in twain. There was a hollow sound as the stiletto slammed into the wall behind him quivering from the force by which is had been thrown. In a movement that belayed his size Volante was across from him a gun in his hand his finger resting on the trigger. Ed felt the cold kiss of steel as the assassin pressed the weapon against the curve of his eye socket. He flicked his wrathful gaze to Wuncler his words falling from his mouth as a jagged snarl,

"The penance for your transgressions against our masters is blood payment which I will take from your fucking mongrel novice now,"

Wuncler had started to his feet in a fit of anger his face callow with rage only to be gently restrained by his grandson. Ed sat there a moment before leaning into the high caliber weapon with such a great force that the metal sliced into the flesh of his eyebrow. Blood immediately began to well from the thin cut and dribble down his face in a crimson thread. A full-fledged, insane grin split across his face, his voice barely rising to a whisper,

"If you're trying to scare me mother fucker, you're doing a very poor job of it."

He glanced to Wuncler a bored expression on his face,

"I tire of this grandfather, my sense of diplomacy has worn incredibly thin, this fool obviously doesn't know who the fuck he is addressing"

As he had been speaking Wuncler had noticed the small shift in Ed's posture, and how he leaned his weight on his hips against the edge of the table. The older man could almost feel the murderous energy coiling within his grandson's body. And as the last grating word left his lips Ed shoved his entire weight forward almost vaulting his entire body onto the tabletop. His hand caught Volante's wrist there was a sickening snap as the agent's hand was violently twisted around and broken.

The gun clattered to the table and Ed swept it back toward him with his free hand before gripping the unfortunate hitman by his long hair and slamming his face into the table. The glass groaned and splintered, cracks creeping to the edge. Blood arched back glinting a dark crimson in the golden candlelight as Ed jerked his victim's head back for a second time and sent his head crashing though the tabletop in a crunch of broken bone and glass.

In the same motion he stepped back taking the assassins dropped gun and leveling it at Iscaeld. They were all standing now their weapons drawn and pointing at Ed. Only Wuncler remained seated an amused expression etching his face. Ed's turned his gaze to each of the other hitmen's faces an infuriating smirk plastered across his features, his green eyes glinting with madness. Wuncler was the one to break the silence absently twisting his insignia ring around his finger,

"Well gentlemen I believe our business is finished here,"

Six long slides being pulled back was his only response. He grinned his voice hardly able to contain his mirth his smile matching his grandsons.

"I would seriously reconsider what you are about to do,"

He slightly inclined his head indicating a dozen of his elites who had silently slipped into the room when they had heard the sound of breaking glass, they were now were flanking the door.

Twelve AMT F.A.N.G's gave threatening clicks.

Wuncler sighed and stood, brushing shards of glass from his suit motioning to Iscaeld with a slight nod as he strode past.

"Tell your patron that his services to the house of Wuncler shall no longer be required any of his men that I find at my manor when I return they will be shot then dumped to rot on his doorstep."

He glanced at the mess on the floor clicking his tongue in disapproval,

"And tell him he will be billed for a new a table since his assassin seems to have fallen though mine,"

He stepped past the furious Leaden beckoning his grandson to follow him with a gentle curl of his fingers. Ed paused before falling in step behind his grandfather his voice ringing with authority and distain as he spoke,

"If that mother fucker is still alive tell him that first blood was mine."

Wuncler's laugher could be heard mingling with the snap of lighter as its lid was flicked closed, floating back to Iscaeld and his assassins like the smoke that trailed after the patron to the Wuncler name.

* * *

After that word had spread like the plague through the dark world of hitman that Wuncler had shed blood from the house of Arach, indeed had almost slain one of the houses elites. Wuncler savored this new attention but kept the presence of his grandson scarce after the confrontation. Let the rumors aid in creating his new assassin, let them breed fear and respect and spark the damning hell fire of fear to forage the blade to press against the backs of Carbellot and Arach.

This is what Wuncler had tried to wield with Gin and had paid for his arrogance with his own blood. He had been too blinded by his own malevolence to those who had attempted to dethrone him to realize that ICA would eventually attempt to kill to get their elite assassin back.

He had played the deadly gambit in which all the patrons of the contract agencies engaged, each one forging and destroying alliances, slitting each other's throats, trying to topple one of houses of the Legion of Three. Weaving nooses for the elite patrons while grinding executioner's axes to bury in the backs of their companion houses. Leaders who surrounded them selves with assassins whose alliance teetered on the edge of faithful loyalty and treachery each as starved for power as their masters.

It was the quietus of many lower guilds, the inability to control the ambitions of their own agents, these men were so vigilant of daggers from their enemies standing before him that they never expected a blade to be buried in their backs from their own men.

This fate had almost befallen Wuncler when his faction had almost been splintered into disarray with the passing of his son who had been followed by the crippling blow of losing one of his most proficient assassins. He had struggled to hang on those five wretched years, begging Arach and Carbellot to not let the fledgling guild be cast back into the grave from which it had been found.

During this they bestowed upon him the small mercy of their protection allowing him the use of their agents. He accepted this with a forced false humility that had almost torn him asunder. While this seemed like an act of clemency Wuncler was no fool and whether from paranoia or cunning he was astute enough to never let those borrowed killers be alone with him or allowed to wander his house with out three of his own escorts.

The blessings of Arach and Carbellot lent some strength to Wuncler and aided in securing his hold on the thin ledge he had been allowed to keep from his fallen kingdom. However it was no secret that the other agencies were closing in on him with the not so subtle threat of elimination, even with the grace of the other two agencies they made little attempt to conceal their jubilation of witnessing Wuncler of toppling from his pedestal. Then like a saving grace Gin had fallen into his lap, and his grandson's bed. The older man had been surprised when Ed had returned from Iraq with a handsome companion trailing in his wake much like a docile servant. A youth with mercury swift eyes, who was fleet of hand and moved with the grace and sure step of a prowling hunter.

Wuncler had thought it amusing that he had been aware of the affection that had threaded between them even before they themselves were aware of such feelings. He saw just how carefully the blond watched his grandson devouring his every movement with a penetrating gaze. He was always at the redhead's side and usually just a subtle step in front of him so that he could move in the way of any threat, his listened intently to anything that Ed said bestowing upon the redhead his full attention. On other occasions Wuncler would notice how intimately close he would he would stand next to Ed his fingertips barely brush against his grandsons hand and sometimes he would even wind his arm around the heir 's waist pressing him tight against his hip so that he could lean down and whisper something in Ed's ear.

Their emerging romance had not greatly disturbed Wuncler he had cared so little for his grandson that the redheads affairs and who he chose to fuck were his own business. But there had been something about the lithe blond that Wuncler had been unable to cast from his mind. He knew he had looked upon his face before, of that he had been certain, but it wasn't until months after Ed had returned that he had finally been able to gain some clarity.

A rouge assassin had been seized by one of his Reapers while roaming though one of his territories. On a whim Wuncler had him brought to his manor and given a taste of Erath's skills as a Scourge. Information had poured from the unfortunate hitman's mouth as easily as the blood that spilled from the gashes that had decorated his tortured body. Between his sobbing screams he reveled much about the little known agency called ICA.

Wuncler had already been familiar with ICA, a small contract organization that had various factions scattered across the globe. For the most part ICA kept to them selves and offered little threat to the established hierarchy, often times staying away from the Legions main territories. It was because of this that the unobtrusive agency was often utilized even protected by the three ruling families. Wuncler would sometimes send in contracts that were too frivolous, or perilous for his top agents. Very rarely did he see the hitmen he was hiring in person, little personal information was offered and usually all he received was the standard rate for the taking a life. The more expensive the agent the more efficient and skilled he was at handling complicated hits.

Wuncler had glimpsed Gin five years prior to seeing him on his doorstep. It had been a fleeting glance of a youth on the cusp of manhood casually reclining in the back of a black SRX, dressed in a nondescript, rather expensive suit, his blue eyes obediently fixed before him. There had been another assassin with him a man who Wuncler assumed was the boys Rein, a man of no discernable age with a shaved head. His back had been turned to the patron so Wuncler had not been able to see his face, however he had been able to glimpse the edge of the tattoo that marred the back of the man's neck. He had been quietly instructing his ward on some specific detail the low tones of his voice drifting into the slate gray sky.

As time passed it had been reveled that the blond youth had swiftly raised though the ranks of ICA under the mentorship of their top assassin, an agent that whose features were only known to his agency. This faceless agent had been the pride of ICA and suddenly he abandoned them, leaving his legacy for his novice, one in which his underling had flourished, and here was this elite assassin on his knees before his grandson worshiping him as a devout lover. So deeply enamored that he would have done anything for the redhead, even offer his own life in penance for the heir's sins, or too keep his lover safe. If Ed only knew that he had played such a major part in the downfall of the blond.

Because of his faithfulness Gin had provided a set of shoulders for Wuncler to stand on, and his desertion had been the force that pushed Wuncler back from the brink, back onto solid ground at the feet of a very unlikely assassin. Ed saw Gins actions as treachery, a feeling that Wuncler nurtured into a deep seething hatred. Lies laced with lies that would become truths fostered by deceit.

This did not mean that it had been a simple task of getting Ed to be his ward. Wuncler had to weave his deceit carefully until his young heir was so bound in his distortions that any whim grandfather uttered became quietly accepted as true. It was then that he began to sculpt Ed to his own liking teaching him his family lore until he was consumed with the desire to be a killer.

It was though these methods that Wuncler discovered, to his fathomless delight, that Ed was a swift, eager learner just as his father had been, a trait that he had thought been lost to his grandson. It was astounding how his young heir burned though thick tomes in a matter of days, devouring the words like an addict. Wuncler would often wake and find his grandson slumped over piles of books asleep, to tired to stumble to his quarters and his own bed. So in order to accommodate this new yearning Wuncler had given him new rooms closer to his own that connected with Wuncler's private library. Soon the walls of this chamber were covered in maps, and sketches of lithe assassins from every century their equipment and various weapons carefully diagramed and labeled.

Besides the methodical beautifully detailed drawings the walls were also lined with gleaming swords, daggers and knives that were accented by replicas of assassin armor. Items forged by the hands of Wuncler's Weapons Masters and wrought from Damascus steel deadly weapons for a lethal nascent assassin. Ed had an obsessive fascination with blades and because of this reveled that he had a talent for wielding ancient weapons and could handle a sword with a natural skill and grace Wuncler had only witnessed in his own father.

When Edward wasn't pouring over books he could be often found in the brumal upper attics dancing in a whirl of singing steel, steam rising from his body in delicate wisps, his breath pouring from mouth and hanging before him in a translucent mist. Wuncler was usually present when he practiced his skill, and the older man loved watching him.

The redhead was death in motion so lost in his imaginary fights the when he stumbled or made a mistake he would wince as though he had been struck be the keen edge of an enemies blade. When he made these errors a snarl that bordered scream would tumble from his lips in a rush of vapor and wrath. He would then meticulously perform the erred maneuver for hours combining it with others until he would fall to knees trembling with exhaustion and gasping for breath. Wuncler had to carry him from the upper lofts down to his rooms during these times. Marveling at his grandson's prowess and how it was truly a show of deadly elegance that was alluring in all its perniciousness.

Ed emanated that deadly sword stance when he was simply reclining in a chair or leaning against a wall. Like a wolf that knows it doesn't have to stalk its prey but rather has the knowledge that the hunt will be over before it's even had a chance to begin. Now Ed was casually sprawled in one of the many high backed bishops chairs that were scattered around the room. Strewn before him like a seers scrying trinkets, softly gleaming in the weak light, were the pieces of a dismantled AMT Silverballer. Wuncler had lost count of how many times his grandson had broken down and reassembled the gun.

He had one of his weapons engineers cast the gun and gave it to Ed as gift. The redhead had quietly accepted the weapon with a gentle word of thanks and for many weeks it had rested on a shelf next to the curving blade of a Persian Legionaries sword, past and present spillers of blood. Then one morning Wuncler had walked into his office and found Ed sitting at one of the tables the pieces of his gun scattered across it surface, carefully drawing each piece running his fingers over the titanium memorizing them. It had been like that every morning for a month Wuncler had even stacked the table with various books the schematics of guns.

They still didn't speak much, and for the most part Ed was content to be silent going about his studies and accompanying his grandfather when requested. But the older man could sense something rising within Edward, a taciturn rage the smoldered just beneath the surface of his clam exterior.

"This was the gun that shot me,"

The words where as a wisp of heat against the cold morning, and the older man could tell they were spoken though bared teeth. Wuncler feigned a smile and focused his attention on his grandson.

"Yes Edward that is the weapon that almost took your life for ICA,"

There was a pause filled with the hushed cadence of the clock and when his grandson's voice finally rose from the stillness Wuncler felt a shiver of cruel delight creep down his spine.

"I will make them regret not slaying me when they had the chance."

The older man allowed him self a soft laugh,

_Yes…yes you will my novice assassin you will bring the world of hitmen to its knees_

Instead of replying he silently stood taking the documents he had been looking over with him and quietly went to Ed laying the papers in front of him.

"I believe that the time is approaching for you to fulfill that vow of vengeance my grandson. You no longer need to practice your skill with a blade in the dusty attics of the manor, away from the eyes of the world, nor do you need to continue your training with modern weaponry here, it is a waste of your talent."

As he spoke he leaned down softening his words until they were only a low murmur against Ed's ear.

"Sanctus de Umbrae awaits you Edward."

* * *

Ed trust his blade into the heart of an imaginary enemy in a coupe de grace, he followed the movement with an upward parry before slipping back into the darkness of the attic and lashed the blade out low. The saber sang against the night cutting shadow flesh to ribbons in a stream of silver and moonlight, dancing around the heir in a flare of whirling steel. He could hear Erath's voice in the ringing sound of his blade shouting out stances and complicated combinations urging him past rational thought and pain. The Scourge would make him practice until he was swaying on his feet in exhaustion and he couldn't hold his saber straight with out the blade trembling in his grasp.

When he had first begun he was clumsy because of his uncertainty, constantly tripping over his own feet and cutting his hands on the blade not wanting to disappoint his master. But under Erath's benevolent guidance he swiftly improved until he had gained enough confidence to cross swords with the Scourge. Ed was nervous about-facing Erath, he had often watched his mentor shadow fence and knew he could kill a man in the span of a few breaths and that his skill far exceeded his own.

"I will show you no mercy Edward,"

The redhead had graced him with a tense smile,

"I wouldn't expect anything less from you,"

Erath had only allowed him a gentlemanly bow before he was upon his young student in a blur of metal and silk. Striking Ed's sword with such a force that it sent tremors though the younger mans bones. Sparks erupted in the darkness as their sabers clashed as Erath relentlessly drove the young backwards until he was pressed against the wall. His green eyes bright with battle fury he managed to parry and dodge most of Erath's thrusts and slashes wincing every time their blades met in a crash of fire.

He somehow managed to slip around Erath's swift saber but found himself once again forced in a defensive position. He spun back from Erath his sword feigning low then striking high almost catching the Scourge of guard. He sprang back out of the others saber range, his breath heaving his fingers twitching against the hilt of his sword. He wearily circled the other man his eyes flicking across Erath's stance trying to find an opening.

He stepped into sword reach again evading Erath's saber as it sough to knick his sword hand. They danced around each other weaving in and out of the moonlight painting the darkness with streaks of silver. Each fell into a comfortable rhythm Ed lunged forward in mercury swift movements his blade swishing forward in intricate thrusts. Where Erath sought the advantage of sheer savage strength Ed tread the path of lightening quick combinations trying to conserve his energy and out last his opponent. Their blades locked and Erath's momentum brought them nose-to-nose their eyes meeting over their straining swords. A few moments later the sound of steel striking wood could be heard, and Ed found himself on his back with the Scourge knelling on his chest the edge of his sword pressed against his throat.

Fear immediately swelled in Ed's chest and he almost bucked his weight forward in a blind panic but stilled when he felt the others hand press against his chest. He forced his body to be still and turned his head away from Erath's steady gaze shame dusting in a hot blush across his cheeks at how easily he had been vanquished. A soft curse spilled from his lips in a swirl of mist and he tensed waiting for the Scourge reprimand him for his failure. Instead he felt the cold steel of Erath's sword shift away from his flesh and hot breath sweep across his face. Strong fingers curled against his jaw turning his head so that he looking into Erath's dark gaze. There was no scorn or disappointment etching the other man's face, and a flicker of a smile lingered on his lips. He leaned down until he was level with Ed his voice whispering in the dark.

"Do not be repentant Edward, you did very well,"

A smile broke across his face,

"However if I were an enemy you would be very dead."

Ed gave low huff of laughter gently shoving Erath's shoulder,

"Any enemy of yours would soon lay dead Erath, your skill with a blade is too great,"

Erath made a small sound of acknowledgment and tilted his head brushing his lips against Ed's temple. The redhead's breath snared and his body twitched stunned at such an arbitrary act of affection. It was not a lover's kiss, of that he was certain, it was chaste and almost playful and didn't send a bolt fire spiraling though his body. No this had been the kiss of a brother or a friend a token of tenderness and support to ward off sadness and doubt. Letting out a breath he had been unaware he had been holding he wound his arm across the others neck holding him in a loose embrace. When he managed to speak his voice so soft that the Scourge had trouble hearing him.

"Thank you,"

Erath nodded and slightly drew away from his student leaning back and gripping his hand pulling him to his feet as he stood.

"Come, take up your sword Wuncler your training is not over this night,"

The memory vanished flowing back to the recesses of Ed's mind. If only Erath could lay eyes on him now, Ed was certain that he could push his mentor to the very limits of his skill and possibly defeat him. No longer was he the shy stumbling apprentice he once was, his stance was no longer insecure and tactless but was fluid and graceful. The sword that he always seemed hesitant to swing now seemed to be an extension of his body; metal that flowed as quick silver from his fingertips.

He flicked the blade in a deadly arch that would have been level with a mans throat, then spun around ending his dance in a classic saber salute with his left hand tucked behind his back. The wraiths that surrounded evaporated drifting up to the dusty beams of the attic, specters going back to the gloom to called back when his dark rage rose within him again. After a moment he relaxed his stance twirling the blade in a slow circle to alleviate the stiffness that had settled in his wrist.

Sweat dripped from his forehead and slipped down the crevice of his spine. Steam rose from his over heated flesh and the gelid air burned his lungs like liquid fire. Battle light still gleamed in his green eyes, stoked to a seething blaze because of his swordplay but it was slowly fading back to a dull cinder like glimmer.

He walked to his weapons rack and sheathed his blade with one sooth motion in the leather scabbard hanging from its edge. He stayed with his hand resting on the hilt taking comfort in the flesh-warmed stainless steel. Sanctus de Umbrae, the name was enough send excitement spindling though his body.

It was the Citadel to the Three Houses, the place where the sent their novices to be sculpted into assassins. Erath had mentioned the sanctuary many times but when Ed would press him for information the Scourge was absently wave the requests away with a flick of his fingers or the tip of his sword. Ed knew that his father had gone there and so had Erath, he was also certain that Sanctus de Umbrae would give him what he needed to wreck the vengeance he so sought on ICA. He long tired of fencing with specters that could not parry his blade and fight back. He yearned to hone his skills to the equivalent of an elite assassin to dance with killers and meld with shadows.

Against his will Erath's final words, scrawled across yellowed parchment streaked across his mind with a crippling radiance.

"_Cast aside you heritage Edward become something more then a blood thirsty killer,"_

Ed sneered then bared his teeth his voicing hissing though the gloom as keenly as his sword,

"No…I am what my heritage has brought upon me, the fates descended upon me and made into what I am, I can no longer ignore that the blood from generations of assassins, of murders in the dark, flows though me. Pity me Erath…pity me for what I shall become."

* * *

_*Docga- an ancient word meant as an insult meaning dog mongrel _

_*Volante- dragon/fiery _

_*Wyrm- meant as an insult dragon/worm_

_*Hraefen- meaning raven a title reserved for Carbellot's elite _

_*Draca- meaning dragon a title reserved for Arachs elite _

_*Sceald- meaning shade a name often served for underlings or novices _

_*Nieten- meant as an insult ancient word for beast or cur_


	5. Solace in Sanctuaries

_Authors Note: Greetings my esteemed readers I was going to publish this as a huge chapter but since its going to be stopped around 60 pages I decided to break it up into three part I would like it to be known and said that I hold no resentment against the Catholic Church or any of its followers. The history of the Church is seeped with blood and secrets as well as divinity and a lauded holiness, bear I it no grudge. _

_I do not own the Boondocks, or any of the elements assassinated with Hitman or Assassins Creed. _

_Sanctus Nocturnae, Horatio Isuild, Blaine, Beldon, are all mine please do not take them with out permission. _

_I am dying, of this I am certain, my time is finite just as everyone who is born into this world. How are we measured in this fleeting time that is allotted to us? Is it by how many people know our names, or how many people say out names in love? I know what it is like to command respect born from fear, and I have experienced the euphoria of undoubting loyal love. And I can you tell which exceeds the other, a million men could cower before me in terror but it could not be equal to the adoration of one lover._

_I rose above the ranks of my brothers with the sure swiftness of a prodigy guided and forged into a killer by my mentor, my Rein. I was gazed upon as something more then just a mere man, I was divine, a lord among peasants. My name fell from the mouths of many assassins as terrified whispers in the dark. When I was bestowed the honor of taking my mentors place, of sitting upon his throne of death and blood the same fate that had befallen him has taken me. I was gone too long from the world men, living in the night and the shadows on the fringes of humanity. Just as any man of flesh and blood I have succumbed to the temptation of love and what a fool I was to fall so heavily for another. _

_To yearn for another person as a man in the desert longs for a sip of cold water, to be blinded to all else around me. Even after all these months I still lust for his touch, his smile, his laugh, his voice. Then I am overcome by a crippling grief that steals the breath from my body. But I had no choice. What would you do to protect the one you loved? To offer your life in exchange for your lovers is a frivolous thing an act lauded by poets and authors, it means little to an assassin who faces his own mortality with every breath he draws into his body. But to sacrifice your love the very thing that binds you to that person in body and soul, to sever those threads is to slay a part of your spirit. Death is closure but abandonment is everlasting. _

_~Rouge Assassin of ICA~_

_"Many come to me as broken men fleeing a past that is drenched in blood and grief. They seek solace from the Hell they cast themselves into and beseech me to quell their fears of the demons that seek to slay them. Waiting…waiting in the darkness for them to stumble and fall. I can offer them comfort, but little else, they must seek out their penance and retribution for the terror they brought forth into this world and unleashed unto themselves."_

_~Father Horatio Isuild of Sanctus Nocturnae~_

The sands of time and the passing of many booted feet had worn the steps to Sanctus Nocturnae smooth. A sanctuary that had been built during the glorious days of Rome, older then the Vatican, its foundation resting on the ruins that Christ had tread with his disciples. It was a reining constant that had stood against the ravages of war and the rise and fall of countless Lords and kingdoms. Many assassins who had been exiled or turned rouge sought solace under its ancient arches, seeking safety and sanctuary from the prying eyes of their masters, the blades of Templar Knights and their own demons. It was the first place that many of them claimed as their home.

Cinder white stone rose to the heavens in elegant peaks and spires that were adorned with shimmering stained glass and snarling gargoyles. Ramparts and parapets arched in graceful curves over courtyards draped in the cloaks of ivy. Ancient walkways twisted through beautiful gardens looked over by marble statues of archangels. Two bell towers dominated over all, their silent bells a soft sheen of silver in the early morning light. A cemetery stretched to the east enclosed by a wrought iron fence its entrance guarded by ancient statues of former Abbots and Abbesses. Huge oak trees spread their branches over well-tended head stones and crypts silent guardians of the dead.

A lone figure now stood before its perennial gates, a haggard form filthy and unkempt with a frayed and torn satchel slung over his shoulder. His head was tilted back casting gaunt features into shadow, his cerulean eyes gazing at the cathedral. He had been standing there for since the bells had tolled the midnight hour. His stance was so unnaturally still that to a passer by it would have seemed unnerving. A heavy mist seeped from the ground and curled around his feet making it look as though this beggar had risen from the cobbled stone street, a lost specter seeking solace within the hallowed haven of the church.

Gin drew in a deep breath that was filled with the scent of incense, candlelight, dusty pages and the breaking of dawn. Already the sound of monks chanting their morning prayer drifted from the open doors mingling with the tones of the bells as they began to strike the hour. He closed his eyes letting the feeling of serenity and safety sweep over him. He felt as though he were about to tumble to his knees in relief, he was here after months of surviving on the brink of death, he had reached his salvation.

But even so he couldn't bring himself to step over the threshold and into his new life as an exile. It would mean casting aside everything he had ever known, and cherished. Could he turn his back on everything he had tried to build with Ed to lock him from his mind and let his memory rest in the sanctum of the past? Uncertainty bore down on him like the killers who had stalked him in the dark, and his mind began spin though all the memories of his lover. He sorely wished that the redhead was beside him that they could have escaped together and finally found solace away from the blood and killing that had so captured them. But would they have made it?

"Does something trouble you my son,"

The blond started, his hand reflexively going to the Silverballer hidden beneath his jacket. He paused just short of gripping the handle and managed to stifle the mad smile that threatened to crawl across his face. The sight he must have presented to the holy priest was less then bedraggled. His hair had long ago come unbound, torn loose from hand-to-hand combat with other assassins. It framed his face in a dirty curtain its golden color tarnished with matted with blood and dirt. His suit, which he had always kept so meticulously clean, was disheveled and hung from his body in tatters.

"Y-yea,"

He swallowed, biting back his accent trying to think clearly, trying to shake off the dregs of memory and doubt,

"Yes Father…many things burden me things that I fear to relinquish and to embrace."

The monk moved to stand beside him he smelled of clean linen and fresh soil. His hands were tucked into the wide sleeves of his robe, his posture matching Gin's and as he moved to look up at the stained glass windows the bond caught a glimpse of obsidian colored hair,

"They are beautiful are they not…these memorials to those holy men long dead. Of course, one would never know they where there if they stayed lost in the shadow…ah but when the fingers of morning sweep across them it is as though they are alive and among us again!"

As he spoke one of his hands slipped from his robe and came to rest on Gin's shoulder,

"My child, all of us fear the unknown paths that stretch before us, and lament those who are cherished, who we must leave behind. You cannot go back down these roads for they are shrouded in gloom, nor can you linger on them…the only way is forward toward the dawn of a new life, for behind men such as you there is only darkness and if you stay there it will surely devour you."

The Abbot didn't wait for the blond to reply but instead swept past him and into the vast hall of the cathedral the morning mists closing in behind him. Gin watched him step into the welcoming interior of the sanctuary, but remained on the steps until the sun rose, its fires chasing back the dusk of night and casting the men immortalize in the glass in a blaze of fire.

Alive…what meaning did that hold for him now? Everything had been taken from him, he had nothing left, no lover, no patron to carry his name, nothing. Yet he had fought so hard to remain among the living these past few months. Hiding in festering ally ways, only traveling at night, eating little, sleeping even less; his hand constantly resting on the handle of his Silverballer leaving behind him a trail of dead assassins. Much of it he couldn't recall the flash of a gun the glimmer of a knife blade. He was certain that his mind had briefly stumbled into the abyss of madness during these hurried brushes with death. And he was certain that moment he passed though those doors there would be no going back, and that meant leaving Ed behind forever.

For the first time since he had been a novice he was fearful and unsure of what he should do. As he had been fleeing for his life, escaping the vigilant gaze of Carbellot and Arach and the frightening unyielding requital of their Executioners; the young redheaded heir had been a constant in his mind. The feeling of protection that he always held toward Ed was just as strong as it had been when he had knelt before his lover and pledged his life to him. Even as he had lain with his life seeping from his body that loyalty had not dwindled.

He sighed his voice fell from his mouth as a broken whisper,

"I am sorry my lover but this is the only way for you to be safe."

Heartbroken and bone weary he cast his gaze over his shoulder bidding a silent farewell to who had been then steeling himself he stepped over the threshold into the welcoming interior of the cathedral.

* * *

Jewel toned sunlight cascaded into the vast hall swathing its interior with a multihued radiance. The ceiling that domed above him was spanned by oaken beams from which wrought iron chandeliers where suspended. Candlelight flickered from the legions of sconces strewn about the colossal sanctum illuminating the faces of saints and long dead priests. Hand carved pews inlaid with velvet cushions stretched from the door to the alter, which was swathed in winter flowers. Glass cases lined the walls trimmed in gold and silver containing ancient weapons with hilts cast of precious metals and encrusted with gems.

Gin halted savoring the silence his eyes drinking the beauty that surrounded him.

His eyes lighted on a confessional that loomed to his right. The darkness within beckoned to him. Shifting his satchel to his other shoulder he made his way into the welcoming gloom and closed the door. He sat in dusty silence for a moment hearing his own breath mingle with that of the priest. He reached out and ran his fingers over the woven wicker screen and nervously licked his lips his voice murmuring in the darkness.

"Bless me father for I have sinned it has been a decade since my last confession,"

He paused unsure of how to continue, suddenly consumed with terror at what he was about to confess and when he spoke again there was a slight tremor in his voice.

"I have killed…murdered many people. Fathers, brothers, sons, daughters, wives, husband's….lovers. I did this out of malicious greed, and thoughtless pride. In rage and as a coward skulking in the dark. I coveted the love of another and turned as a traitor against…against him, wounding him more then I could ever know…"

He faltered to a halt realizing that his hands were shaking and that his vision was blurred with tears, slightly stammering he began again.

"A-and now it seems that Death has finally caught up with me, hunting me in darkness and light, everything has turned to nightmare…."

He heard the sound of the priest as he shifted on the other side of the divider, and the gentle click of rosary beads as they were counted in silent prayer. The voice that reached him was as gentle as the slip of velvet against ancient stone.

"Many men come here seeking redemption for those they killed in the names of their patrons and agencies. Their hands stained with blood and souls tainted by the darkness of the trade they embraced. Many times they are fleeing from the very organization that sheltered them putting us in great peril, or far worse letting in the hounds of Arach and Carbellot"

Gin flinched as though he had been struck his words falling unheeded,

"Then I will get on my knees and beg for your clemency to seek sanctuary I-"

"Hold your silence assassin! You may be a rouge but your Rein taught you to be a refined gentleman do not disgrace him with unnecessary groveling!"

The priests voice echoed in the small confessional, but there was something in his commanding tone that Gin found familiar a faint memory began clutching at the very edge of his conscious. The sharp reprimand ended Gin's hasty plea and silence took hold. The only sound that could be heard was his ragged breathing that he couldn't seem to quiet and despite the cool interior of the confessional Gin felt sweat trickle down the back of his neck.

"I was not passing judgment, but you do bring danger unto me…just as all the brothers and sisters who walk these halls, but feel secure in knowing, my child, that you will come to no harm here this is a cathedral brimming with former assassins, and you are welcome among us but know that if you are playing me false that you are being watched."

Gin swallowed and somehow managed to speak,

"You have my thanks Father I do not know any way that I can repay you"

He heard the rustle of silk as the priest stood and the gentle creak of the door swinging open. He rose and unlatched the portal to his own confessional and stepped into the presence of a man he assumed to have been long dead. The blond almost fell to his knees his mind reeling, clutching at the other man's robes in an effort to remain on his feet, a sob rising unbidden from his chest to his throat.

"H-Horatio…my Rein,"

He trailed off pressing his face against the Fathers chest his entire body trembling. The priest wound his arm around the others shoulders easily supporting Gin's weight as the strength went from his body, murmuring in younger man's ear.

"Its alright my novice you are safe now,"

The blond gave a laugh husky with tears turning his eyes up to look into the face of his teacher. The touch of time had done little to change his appearance, and Gin could still feel of shift of hardened muscles beneath his robes. Hair that was the color of a starless night spilled past his shoulders in ringlets of obsidian. Adding a sense of depth to silver toned eyes that glinted in the morning sun like the keen edge of a sword. They still held within them seething fires of a warrior. His features were stern and angular resembling the carved marble face of an archangel. Gin could recall how easily he could seduce his targets with just a well-placed stare, and how they had been lead to their deaths under that alluring gaze.

"I thought you were dead Horatio…slain…when you disappeared,"

His Rein smiled and steadied his former student, holding him at arms length his eyes tracing over features that he had not seen in over ten years. He reached up and softly ran his fingers over a bruise that marred Gin's jaw clicking his tongue in disapproval before drawing him in a tight embrace.

"I am surprised at your lack of faith in me my student,"

He heard Gin swallow and try to stammer out a reply but halted him,

"It would take more then the mongrel assassins of ICA or the Three Legions to kill me Gin."

He released the blond,

"Come, you must be weary follow me I shall show you to your new quarters,"

Gin gave him a thankful smile feeling the exhaustion he had been warding off since had fled from the smoldering ruins of his agency tug at his consciousness,

"How did you escape?"

Horatio shrugged his pale eyes taking on a far away look,

"The same as you Gin, under the cover of night, hiding in the shadows evading the watchful eyes of the agency and the Legions Executioners. Fighting for my life with each step I took,"

He reached down and took hold of the worn strap of Gin's bag swinging it onto his shoulder,

"Leaving you behind, so young and eager to prove yourself I was vexed with a lingering guilt that did not leave me until I saw you on the steps this morning."

Horatio began making his way to the front of the Great Hall his steps hardly making a sound, his robes gently swishing against the stone floor. Gin fell in step beside him his eyes riveted on his master listening as Horatio's voice ebbed from joy to sorrow laced with grief.

"I had little choice when I left you…I could feel a madness closing in on me those last days I knew that if I stayed my mind would break and that I would kill out of that insanity. So I did the only thing I knew I could do…I ran."

They reached the alter draped with winter roses and ivy and Gin glimpsed a side passage hidden behind a stone pillar its entrance flanked by flickering candles in sconces. He briefly bowed his head and swiftly made the sign of the cross murmuring softly in Latin. He moved to step around the alter but realized that Horatio had stopped and was staring at the silver cross that rose up the bed of twisting emerald vines. He was speaking and his voice nothing more then a whisper. A quiet murmur that made Gin uncertain if was supposed to hear it or not.

"But I gained no solace only more suffering,"

A heavy sigh escaped his lips and he turned his gaze away from the crucifix and settled it on his former student.

"Know this Gin just because you have escaped the killing blade of your agency doesn't mean that you will find peace here."

The blond graced him with a feeble smile,

" ICA was the cause for my undoing but I was forced to go rouge."

"What?"

Gin drew in a trembling breath trying to push the memory of carnage he had stumbled upon his mind. A tremor laced down his spine causing his fingers give an involuntary twitch,

"The agency fell into disarray not long after I came back to them, it now lies in ruin at the feet of its dead creator. All of the agents were systematically slain it was only by fortune I still draw breath,"

"Patron Beldon has been killed you are certain?"

"I saw his body…or what remained of it,"

"Remained?"

"It was a Sleaht* killing…the work of a skilled Macellarius*,"

Horatio flinched as the vile word fell from Gin's mouth, his eyes narrowing to slits of blue. He was silent for a moment and Gin could hear the rhythmic sound of glass beads clicking together as he nervously ran his fingers over the rosary that was looped around his belt.

"Carbellot and Arach would not have sent a Macellarius, they may be cruel but they both honor the Creed. Assassins are not even trained in that art any more at Umbra Nocturnae it was a skill that died with the rumors of Jack the Ripper,"

Gin cast a side glace at his Rein his voice dropping to a low hiss,

"A weaker agency then…one that is trying to secure a name for its self,"

Horatio gave an amused snort a vicious little grin carving across his mouth,

"No…not even a smaller contract agency would be that foolish Carbellot and Arach would have descend upon them with the fury of God the reining houses are tied with that agency, its under their jurisdiction…even Edward Wuncler protects them,"

At the mention of Wuncler's name Horatio saw a brief look of pain mixed with a trace of rage pass across Gin's features but decided to ignore it.

"Executing a Leaden…butchering him and his assassins is an open act of war,"

The Rein made no sound for a long while, his fingers still twisting in his prayer beads, Gin could sense his nervousness and shifted uneasily

"It would seem so…or perhaps it was a warning… they must had known who Beldon had been before he was the patron of ICA there would be no reason to decimate such a small agency."

He trailed off his faced belaying an unspoken worry,

"No there could be no reason."

* * *

Gin glanced around the large room that was now his silently wondering how many other assassins had stayed there before him. Just as the steps to the cathedral were worn smooth so was the floor in his new quarters. From the center of the vaulted ceiling an intricate iron gas light chandelier hung from a black chain. A vast oaken desk its surface gleaming with a fresh coast of polish faced a window set with stained glass . Sheets of blank hand pressed paper were stacked in one corner resting beside two silver quill pens. Crystal bottles of ink lined the back of the desk their tops fashioned from large pearls indicating their color.

A bookcase its first two shelves lined with leather bound books stood beside it. Fastened to the other walls were iron brackets that had once held the deadly weapons of assassins long past. A spacious bed occupied the far wall the bedding woven from simple white linen. Beside it was a large armoire its surface scored with an etching of the Celtic Tree of Life.

A side passage branched off from the bedroom and led to a sizable private bath with a sunken stone tub in its very center. Without hesitation Gin began to strip off his ragged suit, reveling a body that was covered with half healed cuts and decorated with bruises. An old bandage caked and darkened with blood was wrapped around his chest, beneath it was the ugly bullet wound he had received while protecting Ed. His back it seemed had bore the most punishment, a nasty bruise spilled from his shoulder blade to his ribs in a smear of old blackened blood. He twisted on the tap and slipped in letting water slues over his injured body.

The walk from the Great Hall with Horatio had been heavy with silence his mentor radiating a silent rage that Gin was certain was going to spill over with each step they took. Questions lingered on Gin's tongue but he knew from experience that would be best to hold his silence. When they had reached his chamber Horatio gently handed him satchel then reach out and softly clasped his hand in his own. The blond had felt the cool press of metal against his palm and knew that he had been given a key. The priest released his hand and brushed his fingers against the rough wood of the door.

"Exspectata domus Gin…don't fret you are safe here,"

With out waiting for a response he turned and disappeared down the staircase that they had just ascended. Gin had stood there a moment staring after his Rein and when he opened his hand he found something more then a key. A pendant cast from silver and stamped with a intricate symbol that wound around its self it intricate spirals and twists halting at a garnet that had been set into its center. It was fastened to an eternity chain that was crafted from small silver links. Gin had looked at it a moment then slipped into his pocket.

He silently mused as to where his Rein had gone.

The water in the bath was to the brim now; wincing Gin reached behind him and turned off the tap. He could feel the months of weariness and dirt begin to seep from his body, and for the first time in many months the tension that coiled so thickly though his muscles began to ease. The filthy bandage swathed across his shoulders began to loosen and he carefully peeled the dirty linen away from his wound. He was surprised to see that his injury had almost completely healed. He brushed his fingers over the thin newly formed flesh. It would leave a hideous scar, another one to add to his growing collection. He shifted his touch to trace over the chain that hung around his neck his stolen memento from Ed, it was always steady constant against his heart. The silver had tarnished but Gin could still feel his lovers name, clearly carved into its surface, and silently wondered if Ed still wore the dog tag that he left him.

* * *

Horatio sat in his room, his chandelier remaining unlit, allowing the darkness to cast its self over him, enjoying the last fleeting rays of evening sun. The shadows steadily closed in on him like his thoughts but he remained still, content to sit in the blackness the night offered. So many questions crept across his mind, and old fears that had lain silent, lulled to sleep by the security that cathedral offered were being reawaken. Could it be true that Beldon his former master a man who seemed rise to the lofty position of being immortal had been cut down by a Macellarius. Who in their right mind would even consider sending such a inhuman monster to destroy such a small agency.

He propped his elbow on the arm of his chair resting his forehead against his splayed fingers. If Beldon had been found and slain then whoever had done so would certainly have found the Shard of Austrum he had been guarding. Which meant that someone was trying to open doors that had long been sealed shut to a secret that Horatio wasn't even certain existed. Something dark and sinister that had struck enough fear into the Vatican that it sent its Templar's to disbanded the House of Thirty and lock what ever they had found away in a hidden chamber. But in their haste the Cardinals had wrought more damage then they could have dreamed with the execution of he single guild they had caused the resurrection of several others; factions that were splintered, savage and leaderless. Dark days of history where refined killers had turned to rabid gangs of murderers until the families of Arach and Carbellot had taken hold…and a century later Wuncler joined their ranks in holding the reins of power.

Horatio frowned as he thought of that name, a title that had drawn such a strong reaction from Gin. Edward Wuncler had been one of ICA's greatest clients, a powerful patron who had been stripped of all his affluence after the untimely death of his son. Many of the assassins in the sanctuary had served him during his strong rein as the third house in the Legion of Three and had left after he had fallen. But to the surprise of many agencies Arach and Carbellot had kept the weakened patron close something that Horatio understood.

Despite all their grandiose bravado, they were afraid of the man who bore the symbol of the wolf. Horatio had little doubt that if his son had not perished he would have dethroned Carbellot and Arach and would taken control of the two largest agencies in the world becoming the first house that Arach and Carbellot strove against each other to attain.

He was also a familiar enemy one they could easily keep an eye on and repress just enough so he wouldn't be a threat to them but a malevolent force to a smaller agency that was wishing to insert its self as third house. But the Rein viewed this as foolish, Wuncler was a proud man and keeping him in a subservient position while boasting their power over him was a deadly gambit. The older man easily lived up to his sign of the Dire Wolf.

But what connection did Gin have with Wuncler's crippled sire name and why had he returned to ICA after he had fled from them the first time? A vexing question that made uneasiness begin to stir within in the pit of his stomach. Arach and Carbellot while cunning and cruel and lacked the soulless viciousness that Wuncler possessed, the old man was shrewd and pitiless a trait that he had tried to instill in his son. A task that had turned to be an utter failure.

Horatio clearly remembered that young man, handsome and soft spoken so out of place next his grandfather and his assassins. While the novice had endured the teachings at Umbra Nocturnae stoically and demonstrated great skill with weapons and proved to have an intelligence of a natural hitman the title of assassin did not fit him, and Horatio knew could never be tailored to fit him. The young man had been repulsed by the bitter rivalry and purpose of the factions who had first discovered what the Church had hidden away, touching but a corner of vast picture seeped with treachery. It was what had gotten him slain, of that the Rein was sure, but whether by the hands of Carbellot of Arach or even the Vatican Horatio could not be sure.

A brief stab of anger slice though him then, he had felt the loss of Edward as keenly as if he had been his own son. Wunlcer's son had been a panicle of light in the darkened world of assassins, a man with an easy smile and quiet words. Horatio often spoke to him when the Three Houses would gather from meetings of counsel, Horatio had even been taken as the younger man's Rein.

But Gin had changed that, while Horatio felt a parental affection toward Edward he knew that the young man did not need him as much as Gin. The young blond was a lost wayward youth clutching at the threads of life when he had found him lying in a gutter near an area called the Bloodworks on the fabled streets of New Orleans.

Against every rule that had been burned into his consciousness Horatio took the boy with him back to his hideaway beneath the crumbling ruins of a plantation and had nursed him back to health. After a few months he had returned to his patron Beldon with Gin as his new self appointed novice. He loved the boy as strongly as any father could have for his son. He was intelligent and had a natural prowess when it came to using weapons, skills that Horatio had honed to a dangerous edge before he had sent Gin away to Umbra Nocturnae.

When Gin had returned to him changed it seemed that the magisters had taken the innocent joy and youth that Horatio had loved so much in his student. Traits the he adored because he himself lacked such emotions, which had long been carved away by killing so many man. After Gin had returned to him something had changed within him, no longer could he stare down the sights of gun and kill a target as heartlessly as he once had, so he had fled to the secret sanctuary dodging death the entire time and leaving behind a fledgling novice who to his utter grief easily took his stead.

He closed his eyes warding off the acute sense of guilt that washed over him. In his haste and selfishness he had left Gin his student…no that was a lie…his son…a youth who had become his son, who he had come to love and cherish. But deep down he knew during those days of harried flight that the blond would have perished and if that happened then he would have followed him to plains of death.

He had only just managed to escape the grasp of the executioners that had been sent to hunt him down. They would have slain Gin without a second glance would have torn through the young assassin to put a blade though his heart, to slice the brands from his body and take the stainless steel cincture that he wore fastened around his neck as grisly trophies.

Out of habit his reached up and brushed his fingers against his throat. The collar had long ago been removed but sometimes Horatio still felt its weight around his neck. There was a scar that wound around his throat; thin as a piece of thread where the manacle had been cut away. He still had the pieces of it, carefully packed away along with his Silverballers and suite, tucked away in the corner of his armoire. There was something else resting in the closet as well something that he had taken when he had fled from Beldon that had been the cause of Arach and Carbellot sending their Executioners after him. Horatio felt a grin tug at his lips and they would never get it back.

* * *

Gin closed his eyes and sank deeper into the tub softly hissing when the water washed over the wounds that decorated his shoulders. The night had descended upon him the only light coming from the oil lantern that rested close to the edge of the bath. He opened his eyes and watched the flickering light play across the surface of the water. The loneliness that had been pushed to the far recesses of his mind began to ebb into his thoughts. Memories of Edward tugged at him even as he tried to ward them away he knew that it was a vain effort.

Never would he have guessed that the redhead would become such an obsession. But the heir had given him back some of the life that had been stolen away from him during his training at Umbra Nocturnae. Even under the scorching breath of the unforgiving desert sun he found himself smiling whenever he was in the redheads presence, laughing without thought at the younger man's off the cuff jokes staying near him when ever he could. A night that months later he realized, to his brief shock; had been the time that he had fallen deeply in love with the redhead. All from a thoughtless gesture, a brief kiss shared on the cusp of darkness as the evening wanned to night

They were both reclining against the sagging remains of an ancient fort that had once been used to guard caravans laden with gold and silks across the treacherous Sahara. Now a military outpost it continued to serve its original purpose. Gin pressed his back against the cool stone attempting to ignore the sweat that trickled down his spine. He heard Ed shift beside him and move his automatic so that it was resting against his knee.

The night was cast in the silver light of the full moon the stars brilliant flecks of diamond against an obsidian sky. A comfortable silence wove its self between them as they both lost themselves to their own private thoughts. It was Ed who finally spoke his voice a quiet hush in the gloom,

"Ave you eva been afraid of death Gin?"

The blond glanced at his friend a small smile forming on his lips. He had stopped fearing death long ago, even before he had met Horatio when he had been nothing more then a filthy vagabond spilling blood of his meals, sleeping in brothels and gutters of New Orleans. Death was a familiar companion that walked beside every man in the dark underworld of rouge street fighters. He had been a gladiator of the modern age dying was a part of life, just as it was now.

"Naw I figure that Death…when 'e want's you e' will take you an there's nothin you can do bout it s'beyond your control."

Silence swept around them again and he heard Ed sigh his falsetto gangster accent ebbing away,

"I'm 'fraid…not…not of dying but what it makes you into; what being close to death creates in you…and cruel heartlessness that comes with loss and taking the lives of others."

Gin could hear the barely controlled fear that tainted Ed's voice could feel it rolling off the other man in waves and even though they were not touching he know that his friend was trembling.

"Why would you worry 'bout that Ed…you nothing like that your not a pitiless killer-"

"Murderer,"

The word hung above them like a guillotine blade,

"What did-?"

"I said murderer…killing is different then murder, soldiers in war kill, there is a reason ,they are protecting others, their country the ones they love, an assassin is a murder killing for money."

Gin felt a chill snap down his spine and resisted the urge to reach for the Silverballer hidden at his hip. His mind instantly flashing though various memories trying to pin down the moment he let his guard slip and may have reveled to the other that he was a hitman. Panic threatened to seize him and he felt a wave of vertigo crash down on him. His years of training began screaming at him to draw his weapon but it was being drowned out by something else something more powerful then the tenets every assassins followed and pledged to give their lives for. Though the roaring chaos pounding in his ears he heard Ed continue to speak,

"I-I think my grandfather owns assassins… I know that he has murdered many men, mutilated them for simply not following his whims. What is going to happen to me Gin…I share his blood…I'm the heir to his empire…I don't want to become him,"

The sentence broke off with a low sob and before Gin was aware of his actions he had the redhead clasped against his side his face pressed to his neck murmuring soft words in his ear. He felt the heir's arms slip around his shoulders; Ed's breath and hysteric words spilling down the his throat in halting gasps. Gin held him tighter trying shield Ed from his doubts and fear, then his fingers were curling under Ed's jaw and he found himself brushing his lips against the heir's mouth tasting his grief and his terror.

It was a brief kiss chaste and comforting but even so Gin felt something stir within him something protective and fierce. The tempest of voices swirling in his mind and his killer's instinct quieted and a sense of peace stole upon him. But he brushed it aside as nothing more then brotherly concern for his companion. But even when Ed's uneven breaths slowed and tears had ceased Gin still held him against his body whispering to him until they were both relieved from their post.

* * *

Gin opened his eyes to darkness the light resting beside the tub had long extinguished but the memory was still vivid he could still feel Ed's weight resting against him and hear him softly weeping from fear. The blonde tried to shake off the sense of sadness that lingered within him but to little avail. Reality came back to him slowly and it took him many long moments to realize that he was resting in cold water. Trying to ease the stiffness that had settled on his body he opened the drain at the bottom of the tub and hoisted himself out of the bath.

He began making his way to his chamber guided by the glimmer of jeweled moonlight spilling from the stained glass window. Still wet he fell into bed letting the exhaustion he had been warding off since Horatio had left consume him.

* * *

For Horatio sleep did not come that night it remained an illusive wraith a wisp of thought carried on the torrent fears and worries that a rebellion was forming one that would bring the world of assassins staggering to its knees. The Shards were his main concern not the secret that they protected but to the lengths this unknown person was willing to go through to obtain them. Breaking the creed that held the factions to order and prevented open bloody destruction. He had a feeling that the control that Arach and Carbellot had was about to go reeling into the abyss.

He wearily closed his eyes and sighed, then it would be as the days before the three houses. When chaos reined and blood was spilled freely between the factions; guilds headed by rabid leaders who were willing to sacrifice everything to gain just a small thread of power to hoist them above their assassin brothers.

The Church had been just as ruthless the heavy hand of God that had razed though them with the efficiency of a sickle. Shrouded in the guise of saints, wolves in sheep's clothing whispering lies into the ears of The Brotherhood. Severing bonds of trust and loyalty, slaying the one leader, the king who had held everything in perfect balance. Horatio felt a great sense of pity wash over him, sympathy for a man who had died by the hands of his companions of something far more deadly then a knife in the dark. Treachery wielding the sword of hatred, the demon that lurked within the heart of every man invoked by greed, and jealously.

All of this blood shed in the name of a secret that had been kept hidden, written on a scrap of parchment that an assassin had accidently stumbled across while using one of the many crypts that had lay beneath ancient the streets of Rome. A secret that the Church would do anything to get, a cursed treasure that their priests had thought was lost. It was thought to have been destroyed but Horatio knew better just as the assassin who lead the church before him.

There were pieces of this secret shards scattered though out the realms of hitmen. Arach and Carbellot each held a part of it, segments that Horatio him self had absconded with by pure accident. Tiny treasures that had almost gotten his throat slit he had escaped it but Beldon had not been so fortunate. Beldon his long ago friend now lay dead among the ruins of his agency. A dire warning that was sure to send tremors of fear to every functioning guild in the world, soon every house would know what had happened, every assassin, every rouge would be whispering of the carnage that had befallen the patron.

All for a small trinket a fragment to key that would open a door that was meant to stay locked away until the judgment of all men. The evil that once again thrust its self from the shadows would be unrelenting in its pursuit, Beldon would the first of many deaths. Horatio knew that he couldn't stop it, he was too old play this game all he could do was hinder it progress before its swept over them and consumed them all.

In the bleak hours of darkness before the dawn the former assassin came to a decision and left his rooms making his way to the Great Hall with out the aid of light. He knew every step, every stone in his church and had long ago cast aside even the thought of using a lantern. He briefly paused at Gin's door before continuing on sweeping down the staircase to the inner sanctum. He halted before the alter dipping his fingers in holy water bowed his head and swiftly made the sign of the cross.

He then made his way to the confessional and silently went inside, he slipped the rosary from his belt running his fingers along the sidewall until he felt the slender slot that had been carved there hidden in the design that had been etched into the wood. He pressed the crucifix that dangled from his rosary into the hidden opening there was a soft click and the wall opened inwards. The smell of dust and decay wafted from the dark passage curling into Horatio's nose beckoning him into the darkness. He slipped inside closing the door behind him.

* * *

Gin awoke to the gentle sound of rain falling against his window. He lay there lulled by the distant rumble of far off thunder. It felt odd waking up in a bed instead on the floor with his gun resting across his chest his finger curled around the trigger. In a clean room that didn't smell of moldering filth and stale sex.

He absently reached up and touched the pendant that hung around his neck brushing his thumb over Ed's name a ritual he performed every morning when he woke up. He started at the ceiling feeling the bullet wound in his shoulder throb in time with his heartbeat. A permanent physical memory, another war wound of how everything had so swiftly went to hell. He moved his fingers over the scar trying to ease the some of the pain that he knew the approaching storm would soon bring.

He was considering getting the syringe of morphine out of his satchel when he heard a soft knock on his door. Sighing he rolled to his side and braced his good arm against the mattress pushing him self into a sitting position. Clutching the sheets around his waist he slowly stood stiffly and began walking to the door. Horatio stood at the threshold a set of robes draped over his arm with a tray of food balanced on his fingers.

"Good morning Gin I trust that you slept well?"

Gin smiled stepping to one side sweeping his arm before allowing the priest entry,

"Better then I expected it seems that I have woken later then I intended,"

Horatio softly laughed,

"Yes the church can cast quiet a spell can't she? I slept the entirety of my first day here, something I had never done"

He moved inside setting Gin's breakfast on the immense desk tossing the blond his new cloths.

"These should suit you better then the rags you were wearing. I have talked to a tailor in town and asked him if he could make you some new sets of cloths,"

The Rein began laying out the food from the tray not bothering to avert his eyes when the sheet fell from Gin's waist and he began to change. The Reins eyes made swift note of the bruises and cuts that were scattered over his student's body even the chain that hung around his neck. His gaze lingering on the freshly healed bullet wound on his shoulder noticing how carefully he lifted his arm to slip into his robes.

"Your wound is paining you?"

Gin stilled for a moment before pulling the garment over his head,

"Yes the changing weather often makes it ache especially when it rains,"

He shook his hair from beneath the collar feeling that Horatio was still intently staring at him,

"Must have been difficult while you were hiding; I am sure sleeping on hard floors with the cold seeping into your body hindered the healing process..."

Gin regarded him with silence for a moment sensing the subtle meaning beneath Horatio's words. Against his knowing his voice took on a defensive tone,

"Yes, but it is a pain I am more then willing to endure,"

His Rein softly laughed his eyes shining with amusement,

"Who ever they were they must have been special for you to potentially lay your life down and shed blood for them."

The outrage that had been simmering in Gin's blood died and when he looked at Horatio the older man noticed the hardly contained grief that spilled across the blonds face.

"Yes…he was…is more precious then you could ever know and I will still do anything to protect him,"

Horatio's eyes locked with Gin's for a moment before he turned away and continued with his task of laying out their meal.

"That is why you left ICA wasn't it? In order to protect him…you forsook your creed, training, your brothers of the trade, your patron…everything."

As each quiet word fell from Horatio's mouth Gin felt the cold fingers of discord tighten around his throat.

"I thought you would understand this-,"

His voice was tainted with bitterness and in his anger took a step forward. His Rein straightened and spun upon him with a swiftness that was startling standing so close that Gin could see the flecks of silver in his eyes. His voice was a low whisper intimidating and cruel,

"No Gin I understand completely you tossed aside everything that had been thrust upon you, abandoned your heritage and ancestors and instead of being a soulless murderer you followed your own intentions, your own creed, and much to my everlasting pride began to think for your self,"

Gin blinked the seething insult that had been lurking on his tongue sliding down his throat. He noticed that Horatio's shoulders were shaking with silent mirth and that a thin smile had broken across his face. He reached up cupping his hand, still rough and calloused from handling weapons, around the back of Gin's neck and drew him forward so that his mouth was even with the blonds ear.

"My how you have grown my prodigy even though I left you were my greatest pride I know that my faith was well founded,"

Horatio placed a soft kiss on his student's temple before he pulled away and began pouring Gin a cup of tea,

"Now tell me what happened when you returned to our agency?"

Sleaht- an execution killing

Macellarius- ancient word for Butcher


	6. Shattered in Snow

_Snow was gently whispering against Gin's face carrying with it the gilded kiss of winter. He sighed taking one last drag from his cigarette before he flicked it to the damp ground grinding it out with the heel of his boot. The bandage swathed around his shoulder was bothering him and the cold was causing his partially healed bullet wound to ache with every breath he took. The constant pain was making him irritable and the cigarette had done little soothe his dark mood. _

_He was weary of watching his target and waiting for him to make the fatal mistake of wondering around the hotel alone. What a futile idea that proved to be. A dense barrier of bodyguards always surrounded him; they trailed him wherever he went. Always vigilant, standing like pillars granite in front of their charge. Or flanking the every entrance to his suite, never leaving the area unprotected, even when their patron wasn't even in the room. The tedious task of keeping a low profile was beginning to be a pain in the ass. Since a high profile kill seemed elusive Gin considered trying the more tactful approach of sniping the wealthy novice businessman. But even that was proving difficult. His target never followed any semblance of a pattern there was never any specific place that Gin could have any possible hope of making a clean shot._

_He lingered by the door a bit longer, idly watching sleek expensive cars glide into the atrium with raptorial grace. Port men, lithe men who wove between the vehicles with the light step of dancers with easy smiles and soft voices, immediately tended them to. These attendants' always polite, always eager, always slipping handsome sums of money into their pockets from their patrons. The scene was so much like the far-flung days of kings and queens, who would make yearly pilgrimage to this castle to live out harsh winter months in gilded splendor. A when these stones had echoed with the merry jingling sounds of carriages drawn by sweat-covered horses. Welcomed not by eager port men when quiet voices but by guards armed with keen edged swords and deadly crossbows, guarding their royalty against the blade of assassins. _

"_How little has changed since the far flung days of lords and ladies," the words slid unheeded from his lips hanging in air with the vapor of his breath. Many men of affluence had clasped the hands of death in this fortress, and soon another would be joined to their ranks._

_His name Christophe Leocadio, a youth on the brim of taking the prestigious crown of Royalehorse from his father and prevailing as a powerful lord of the realms of business. To Gin he seemed a trifling threat, a boy king about to sit as a figure head on the throne of his father, more cub then lion. The thought struck the blond as oddly amusing and with a wistful grin that seemed frigid even to the howling maw of winter turned and made his way back though the automatic revolving door, into the warmth of the atrium. He eyes automatically flicked to the security camera above the reception desk as he walked toward the glass elevators. Those would be easy to take care of he had already received word from his informant that the system was digital all it would take was a simple key code from his Scriptoria and the entire mainframe could be erased. _

_Keeping his stance relaxed he pressed the button to call the elevator impatiently watching as the car descended from one of the upper floors. He moved inside and pushed the button to his room on the top level sighing when the elevator halted halfway. He had been hoping for a solitary ride back to him room, a brief amount of time to let his ire cool down before deciding what his next move would be. The last thing he wanted was to be standing in an elevator with jabbering elites. He felt the beginning of a headache pulse behind his eye. However, his anger immediately faded when the graceful form of Christophe stepped inside and moved to stand a companionable distance from him. He was a little younger then Gin and dressed in an extravagant suit. His hair was a dark auburn that lent to the color of his pale, silvery hue of his eyes. His features were pronounced, and struck the observer as beautiful. He glanced at Gin his handsome face creasing in a small smile._

_Gin returned the gesture with a roguish grin. He slightly moved into the others personal space keeping his stance relaxed and friendly his voice quiet._

"_Odd to see you alone. Where is your little entourage?"_

_Blaine glanced at him the corners of his grey eyes crinkling with a smile he turned his gaze shyly to his booted feet his voice smooth._

"_I am surprised you even know that it was me amongst them, surrounded as I am with every step I take."_

_The blond was taken slightly aback by this action of reticent bashfulness. He was used to his targets being arrogant pompous fucks with raucous voices, not demure and_

_Soft-spoken. He found it more then unnerving because he was certain this was the type of young man that Ed was beneath his façade rough indifference. The young heir was looking at him now his expression still meek his oddly colored eyes regarding him without any distain or contempt. For the briefest moment Gin felt a pang of guilt slice keenly though his armor of indifference and pierce his heart. Clenching his jaw he pushed back the feeling grinding it out with a determination that left feeling slightly light headed._

_With effort he began to look at the youth through the cruel eyes of a merciless hitman, it didn't matter how pious or saintly Christophe appeared to be. He was a hindrance an obstruction and to him a profit and in order to fulfill this he would have to eliminated. This inner battle blazed though his head in a matter of seconds, and he softly laughed._

"_Any man or woman would have to blind to not notice you,"_

_Gin suppressed the urge to grin when he heard the other sharp in take of breath abruptly moving away when he heard the ding of the elevator door opening. He cast a seductive glance over his shoulder before stepping out and into the hallway. Leaving the slightly flustered young man staring back at him a light blush dusting across his cheeks._

_Hot water rolled down Gin's back relaxing the tension that had settled in his shoulders. He reached out and braced his hand against cold marble the wall in front of him letting the water cascade over his head. An anxiety he had never felt was slowly eating at him and just behind it was the cold tinges of guilt. It was as if all that time he had spent in Ed's presence, of being able to return to him after fulfilling a contract had kept those damning emotions in check. But that had been different hadn't it? He had done what he had to do, which was to go to any lengths to protect the one that he loved, and the many of the men that he had been ordered to kill deserved the death he had brought upon them._

_The crippling thought that this young man was not a vile patron or bureaucrat but was yet untainted by the avariciousness of greed that seemed to steal the very essence that had made those men human. Once again he felt self-doubt creep into him and this time he let it break free of its thin cage. He felt a bitter smile smear across his face and he laughed, a brittle sound that seemed to shatter against the marble of the tub. He was suddenly amused at what he had become and what Ed had made him. The realization that he was no longer an assassin or a hitman slammed into him with the electric force of a molten bolt of lightening. The irony of course being that redhead had done it with out any intention. The young Wuncler had taken something from him, stolen it away with out him even realizing that it had been pillaged. Pilfered what Umbra Nocturnae had forced upon him during those wretched years of his training when they stripped him of his humility turning him into something that was of the same essence as darkness and death._

_And for a while it had worked beautifully, even more so when his Rein had suddenly left and had been thrust into his lofty position where he could test his newly honed skills. He had been the pride and envy of many agencies and had maintained the elusive aura that Horatio had so easily held. But Ed had changed that with a graceful ease ripping away the shroud that his Rein's at the academy had so careful stitched together._

_The redhead had made him __alive__ again, made him experience untamed joy and loyal friendship and later a burning lust that had become a fierce love. Now he was suffering from the after shock of what it felt like to have life giver that radiant joy abruptly taken away. How could he do the same to father knowing the grief that it caused? The question resonated with him slicing to his very soul and that's when he knew that he could never again kill someone in cold blood. It was at that moment he knew that he was about to follow in the footsteps of Rein and become rouge. _

_The heaviness that had been clinging to his neck with dead men's fingers slipped from his throat and he felt the strain that wound so tightly though his soul fray and finally snap. This life was not for him any more and he knew that he had ceased to be an assassin, a true assassin that night he had first chastely pressed his lips to Ed's when the thought of killing the redhead had risen within him only to be struck down as an absurdity. He would never get his killer instinct it back either it was lost and Gin was content for it to stay that way._

_His mind suddenly up and felling more alive then he had in many months the former assassin and straightened and turned off the water. He grabbed a towel from the heated rack he began to dry him self off. He was going to leave tonight that was certain but first he had some unfinished business that he needed to attend. _

_Christophe slipped out onto the icy balcony of his room a pack of cigarettes loosely clasped in his hand. Frustration creasing his face, his jaw ached from being constantly clenched against the anger that threatened to tear him apart. He wasn't used to being constantly trailed by guards and while this didn't seem to bother his father it was as if he were chained at the neck to his personal elite. The loss of freedom was beginning to wear on him causing him to loose his concentration and become extremely short tempered. Just getting some moments to him self, even if it were a few minutes to have a solitary cigarette was rare. _

_He stood close to the sliding glass doors to the bedroom suite of his rooms not wanting to stand out in the bitter winter wind. He held the package Foxfoot cigarettes up to his mouth and drew one out sighing when just the faintest hint of the nicotine wisped into his mouth. _

_That small taste calmed him and he immediately felt the taunt thread of rage that wove through his tendons slacken from his body. He drew in a deep breath of brumal air liking how it sharpened the taste of tobacco, hoping it would clear his tumultuous thoughts. He closed his eyes letting his thoughts drift biting his lower lip when they settled on what had happened in the elevator. Against his will he felt a flush of heat keep across his face almost feeling the blond strangers words against his throat. _

_Such an odd encounter one what left him shaken and questioning his sexual preference. He usually didn't spare a passing glance to men and gave just as few toward women. But the man in the elevator had been different his bold actions belaying an over whelming confidence that wasn't arrogant but alluring. Christophe was sure that if he had not been fumbling to catch his thoughts he would have gladly followed the other man to his room for a nice romp between the sheets._

_Stifling a smile he fished titanium lighter from his pocket and flicked it open. A brief stab of fire slashed though the night illuminating his features then flickered out. He took a long drag from the cigarette holding smoke in his lungs, as long his body would allow before exhaling._

_"You do know that each one of those is a coffin nail in your casket right?"_

_The words were spoken right next to his ear so close that he could feel the heat of them wash across the flesh of his face. In that brief moment everything sense seemed heightened. The feeling of smoke rushing past his teeth as he exhaled and spat the cigarette from his mouth. His lighter falling from his fingers striking the balcony with the delicate tinkling sound of silver rang as loudly as a gunshot in his ears. He reflexively went for the gun beneath his jacket but before he reached his weapon he felt cool metal touch against the back of his neck._

_"Don't move,"_

_The voice was low and carried the subtle threat that there be absolutely no problem if it came down spattering his brains all over the street below their feet. He halted his movements flinching when he felt the others fingers curl around the hem of his jacket and draw the garment back. He glanced down noticing that the tapered digits were encased in leather and watched as they closed around the handle of his 1911 Hardballer, feeling its weight leave his hip when it was taken from its holster._

_"There is no need for you to have this…now walk forward and put your hands against the railing,"_

_Trying to quell his shaken nerves he slowly stepped forward curling his fingers around the cold metal. The others gun remained steady against the base of his skull and as he walked there was silence then he heard the soft click as the ammunition clip was ejected from his gun and saw the a flash of light as the moon caught on the metal as it was casually tossed over the side of the balcony. There was another sound the whisper of metal as it sliced though the winter air as the bullet that had already been loaded was shot from the chamber. _

_Christophe flinched as this happened and__ felt every muscle in his body begin to coil in the horrid anticipation of being executed. But as his eyes took in the sparkling lights of the city scattered beneath him like a kings treasure hoard covered in a veil of white of snow the fear within him faded. At least this would be his last sight before a bullet tore though his brain and blinded him to the mortal world. A sudden thought came to him and he found his words falling as a whispered mist from his lips. A last request that he hoped would be granted. _

_ "Please wait a moment…let me look at the city for a moment longer,"_

_He heard an oddly familiar soft laugh and the rustle of clothing as the hitman's arm curled around his side again and returned the gun back to the holster at his hip. _

"_Why? You will be looking at it the whole time that I am speaking. It will still be there when we are done I assure you its not going to go anywhere. Learn some patience young heir it will save your life," _

_Christophe__ swallowed as the soft haze of acceptance began to lift from his mind sliced away by the assassin's low voice. He knew this game, had seen it played out many times, usually when he was in the presence of his father, watching in appealed silence as the victim was lulled into a false sense of security clutching at a glimmer of hope only to it wrenched away from him so his father could get the morbid pleasure of watching that relief bleed from his victims face as he died. He shuttered but somehow remained calm his voice taking on an icy edge, _

"_I would appreciate it if you didn't lie to me and bestow me the mercy of not treating me like a fool before you kill me," _

_The pressure from the gun on the back of his neck let up slightly and he felt the nozzle shift down so that it was resting against his shoulder._

"_You misjudge me my friend I am not here to kill you," _

_For a long time there was silence then Christophe felt the gun leave its place on his back and heard the other step back from him. He fought the urge to spin around and face the assassin but he stayed where he was some how sensing the unspoken request for him to remain as he was, facing the city. _

"_Though I will not lie until a few hours ago I had every intention of sniping you as you stood outside smoking your cigarette,"_

"_And what brought on the change of heart? Someone offer you a greater sum to not put a bullet though my head?" _

_He could hear the smile in the others voice, _

"_So you do have some fire in your soul I suppose the little show you put on in the elevator of being an innocent choir boy was all just an act for my benefit?" _

_Christophe__ felt a shiver cork- screw down his spine and clenched his hands against the railing. The assassin had been frighteningly close to him, almost pressed against his hip all it would have taken was a well placed blade or silenced bullet and all would have had to do is walk out of the elevator and let it continue down until someone found its grisly contents. _

"_You had a perfect chance to kill me the elevator," _

"_Yes I did, a syringe full of poison to the neck would have been all it would have taken so much less messy then a gun or knife," _

"_You would have been seen, the cameras-," _

"_No longer function the data system for this building has been destroyed by a very nasty virus and as far as anyone can tell I was never here and only person who does know is you."_

"_What has stayed your hand," _

"_I have found that I can no longer be an assassin and what I am about to tell will forever cast me a traitor to my agency. I spared your life to warn you that a patron within your father's inner circle wants you eliminated. This death wish wont stop with me I ask you to be careful or find the traitor and kill him before he kills you,"_

_The heir felt the imposing presence that had been against his back shift away, _

"_Be careful where you tread Christophe death lurks in the darkness, waiting for you to stray,"_

_Then Christophe__ heard an odd sound much like the clink of metal against steel and felt the railing beneath his hands vibrate with a sudden force, he knew before he turned around that the assassin was gone. He slowly released his grip his mind reeling from what had just happened amazed that he was still breathing. Feeling a wave of vertigo spin into him he swiftly turned around not wanting to pitch over the edge onto the street below._

_He leaned against the banister and braced his lower back against metal with his arms folded across his chest and drew in a deep breath his eyes scanning the surrounding balconies trying to catch a fleeting glimpse of assassin's tall figure. But he saw no stealthy shadow moving with the lithe grace of a predator and was only greeted by swirling snow and darkness._

_The hitman's presence still lingered on the balcony just like his low warning remained in Christophe's mind. A threat of treachery that someone wanted to end his life, someone he was close too. And whoever it was had come dangerously close to achieving that objective tonight, never would he have imagined that the assassin would have spared his life, and he assumed that the same thought had never occurred to the man that taken out the contract._

_He__ shivered his hand unconsciously slipping into his pocket searching for his packet of cigarettes. Forgetting that he had dropped them and his lighter in his brief struggle against his would be killer. They both lay a short distance from his feet; he leaned down and picked them up. Noticing then that just how much his body was trembling with the aftershocks of adrenaline; he almost dropped his lighter, and it took a moment find his grip and snap the lid open. Fire sparkled in the dark and when he finally was able to catch a steady flame he held the flickering light close ready to take a drag from his cigarette. But just before fire brushed the end of his smoke he paused flicked the lighter shut then flung the cigarette along with the entire package over the railing. Whoever was trying to kill him he didn't need to help them along._


	7. An End and Remembered Beginnings

_Gin watched Christophe finally disappear back into the safety of his room through the powerful scope of his sniper rifle; he relaxed his grip on the deadly weapon and began swiftly disassembling his gun, placing the pieces into the lead lined metal case that rested at his feet._

_When he had swung down from Christophe's balcony onto the one just below it he had been uncertain of the heir's actions. Not knowing whether the young man would send his guard to find him or remain where he was Gin had hastily made his way to the vantage point he had selected the day before. Wanting nothing more to retrieve his gun slip down the fire escape and become a shadow of a memory. His room was already abandoned, the virus sent to destroy the digital images of him had been enacted and according to the hotels records he had never been there._

_But before he had been able to put away his gun he could not resist a glance though the scope. To his surprise Christophe was still there, looking thoughtful and slightly frightened._

'_You should be,'_

_Gin had silently mused to himself,_

'_The wolves have already breeched your gate, one walks beside you and you don't know it,'_

_Gin had wished that he could have told Christophe more about who had sent him but just as with all his clients he had been summoned by a faceless entity more than eager to pay his fee and ordering him to kill. Now that Christophe was aware that someone wanted him assassinated he would be more aware and cautious of his actions. This would make him harder to kill, and it would buy him some precious time to find the one who wanted him dead. _

"_Welcome to the world of the business elite,"_

_Something Wuncler had said after a successful contract had been carried out against another youth from a powerful family. It was past the time that Christophe was introduced to the vicious circle of blood and death that encompassed all his associates. He needed to know he wasn't immune to the power struggle and that he would have to fight to keep the place that had been given to him on a blood stained silver platter._

_Gripping his suitcase Gin made his way to the edge of the building to the metal stairs that spiraled down to the icy street. The gun case hardly hindering him he made it to the alleyway in little time. He stayed hidden in the shadows alert and silently counting down from sixty as he waited for a group of people to walk by then stepped out amongst them onto the sidewalk. His movement was so sooth and unobtrusive no one ever noticed him. As he walked, easily side stepping pedestrians, he reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out his cell phone. It was a customized device new age, sleek and sensitive to his fingerprints._

_He entered the code for his bank account and checked the balance making sure that he would have the small satisfaction of cheating his last client out of a quarter of a million dollars. After securing a few more hidden funds he had stashed away over the years he transferred all the money to an untraceable account. One that he set up on a whim when he had began living with Ed just in case they needed a lot of money quickly if Ed's accounts failed. After that it only took a few more keystrokes to permanently close his ICA account. _

_He planned staying here for one more night then escaping back to New Orleans, his old home, the place of his childhood. He would stay there for a few months hidden away in the one of the time forgotten plantations until the Executioners he was certain would be sent after him turned their attention to some other rouge assassin. Then from there he would be able to make his way to Rome and to the sanctuary of hitmen that had forsaken their houses. If he managed to make it there alive he would be free of this, liberated from the horror that he had constructed around himself, which he had been blind to until he had lost Ed._

_He had found the inn by accident, the first time he had completely driven past it the sign that marked it as something more than a private residence was partially hidden behind a thick curtain of winter ivy. He had only caught sight of it in his rearview mirror as he had sped past seeing only the word 'Inn' in the twilight gloom of evening. Realizing what it was he had turned the car around so quickly he had almost skidded into the ditch. As he re-approached the sign he could just make out the words printed above the title that marked the building as a hotel. The Kingforage Inn. He idled in the gravel driveway for a moment appraising the structure with the critical eye only a hitman possessed. _

_It had been an old dormitory building recently refurbished to give it the soft brushed look of an English bed and breakfast. It was charming, but what drew Gin to it more than anything was its total lack of modern security technology it was also obscure enough that from a casual glance looked like nothing more than a well-kept estate. After a moment Gin killed the engine and headlights and stepped out of the car. He ran his hands underneath the ivy his fingers brushing over the hooks that secured the sign to q chain dangling from the branch and lifted the sign free from its hooks. He stowed the wooden plaque against the opposite side of the tree where it could easily be seen and re-hung in the morning._

_This done he went back to his car and parked it around the back of the building. Again he was embraced by the cold as he swept up the steps to the porch silently appreciating the elegant grandeur of the building. The length of the wrap around porch was alight with the gentle of glow of gaslights cast in bronze. Draped across their gentle curving arms were lengths of garland and holly. The scent of these fresh cut sprigs of laurel mixed with the smell of a dusty age long past. From the windows he glimpse a sitting room arranged with antique Elizabethan style furniture that gleamed with a fresh coat of oil. The walls festooned with oil paintings from the gentle artistic Victorian era and hung with elegant tapestries woven into the images of long forgotten Dukes and Duchesses. A fire twinkled in the fireplace shedding light on bookcases heavy with tomes. This would be a welcome change from the extravagance of the hotel he had just fled. _

_Carine glanced up from her book as she heard the immense doors of the foria swing open. Standing against the winter swept night was man so handsome she at first thought her eyes were playing a cruel trick on her. She blinked thinking that the apparition would disappear, he didn't. All he did was close the oaken doors and begin pulling his leather gloves off and loosening his scarf._

_He was dressed regally in black slacks and leather boots that were emblazed with simple silver buckles. Over the flare of a white shirt he wore a trench coat that was charcoal gray that heightened the brilliance of his eyes dying them to a shimmering sapphire hue. Silver buttons lined the edges and cuffs of his coat. His features were stern and crisp. She could easily imagine him in armor, a sheathed sword at his side, proudly bearing the title of a knight. He glanced her way and smiled, stealing the breath from her lungs. _

_He moved toward her with a vulpine grace that edged on being deadly. His voice was low and calm belying a sense of latent power. _

"_I was curious if there were any rooms available…preferably something with the view of the courtyard," _

_The accent was difficult to place certainly not from England but over seas, the Deep South, Louisiana maybe? It took her a few moments to realize she was still staring, awe struck at the vision before her. She felt a blush creep across her cheeks and stammered a reply. _

"_Y-yes we have rooms towards the back, forgive me I was just….," she faltered to halt then took a deep breath. _

"_You startled me is all, we don't get visitors so late in the season," _

_That charming grin didn't fade, nor did the fire that it kindled in her heart. _

"_Such a shame this is really a beautiful place, I was admiring it through the windows as I made my way around the front…the room?" _

"_Yes of course there is one on the second floor that over looks the court I am afraid it's been to cold to enjoy as of late," _

"_Hhmm well there are other views that are just as enjoyable," _

_Another, more furious blush crept across her features but she managed a shy smile. He paid for the room in cash, and signed under the name Dr. Sassinas*. He carefully turned down the offers for a late dinner, and for having his bags carried to his room. He could manage perfectly well and was looking forward to breakfast in the morning. He bid Carine a gentlemanly goodnight, thanked her and went to retrieve his bags. _

_Gin had parked the rental car further behind the building, away from prying eyes and angled the vehicle for an easy get away if someone managed to find him. After he returned he had locked the door and tied off the knob with a length of fiber wire, which would make it difficult to open under physical force or gunfire. _

_He now surveyed the rest of the room, a window facing the outside was to his right, curtained in white gauze and heavy drapes to ward off the sun. A four-poster antique bed with matching side tables was pushed against the wall diagonal to the window. Its bedspread a deep crimson satin lined with coils of thick thread. A small desk, compete with lamp and a scattering of pens was wedged into one corner. Paintings of English forests and men sitting astride horses, their eyes wild with the thrill of the hunt galloped down woodland trails in pursuit of their quarry. It had a certain British charm that Gin found appealing; he often got incredibly bored with the manufactured look of the some of the high-end hotels he frequented._

_Connected to the bedroom, almost as though it were an afterthought, was a small bathroom, its floor and walls recently remodeled with slabs of sable colored tile. Its design was simple, a chestnut cabinet hung over the toilet next to the sink, which was fashioned to resemble the eighteenth century washing bowls that young women had in their bedrooms, and a shower unashamedly encased with glass doors was to the right. With the shower was a window covered over with a waterproof blind. _

_Gin stepped into the shower and lifted the curtain surprised to see that the glass on the other side was clean and he was overlooking the small courtyard. He leaned back and glanced at the sill noticing that it was almost lost under layers of paint. The window probably had not been opened since it had been used as dormitory to house the eager migrant workers that had sought their riches in the newly discovered land of the States. Placing his hands beneath the sill he braced his feet and tried to open the small fenestrate. The wood groaned in protest and for a moment offered some resistance then gave away in a shower of paint and dust. Coughing Gin stuck his head out and drew in a deep breath of frigid air. _

_The drop from the window wasn't too high; there was even a small ledge half way down that he could step onto before he reached the wall of hedges that lined the wall. From there he could make it to his car, the perfect escape route. Leaving the window partially open he made his way back to the main room._

_Resting his back against the wall he sank down to the floor took out his phone and pried off the back. Among all the glistening silicon micro chips he placed a small device of his own, something he had purchased from the technological black market from a Phreaker that would erase he recent activity and scramble the tracking signal. It would take a few hours for it to fully engage but ICA would not know of his desertion until the next morning when he was supposed to call in and confirm his hit and by then it would be too late. He slipped the cover back on his phone and put it back in his pocket. _

_He then eased down for a fitful night of sleep on the floor with the bed between him and the door. He lay there his heart beating heavily against his chest, feeling the blood thrumming thoughout his body like an electric current. It wasn't regret or even fear that stole upon him but rather an intense sense of freedom. For the first time since he was seventeen he wasn't living under the orders of someone else, balanced on the edge of a blade waiting for instructions to come trickling down from his Patron, the feeling was almost euphoric._

_ But as always these thoughts strayed to Ed. Gin swallowed feeling the treachery of what he had done seize him in its jaws. He drew in a tumultuous breath and let it take him. _

_ The first time they had truly kissed not as friends but as lovers had been in a hotel similar to Kingforage. It was an inn tucked away from the hustle of England, a former manor set in the fog-shrouded headlands; bearing the whimsical name of Pendragon. Gin remembered Wuncler Sr. had accompanied them but his memory was a vague specter. He had been to shamefully captivated by seeing his friend in civilian cloths. The image of the redhead dressed normally was stirring to the blood. The heir had his rapt attention the entire drive to the inn, and it was all Gin could do to not stare like a love struck moron. _

_ The room they shared had been lavish, regaled in velvets, silk, and marble all set in dark seductive hues and tones. When they had arrived, a dusting of snow clinging to their jackets and hair, a fire had already been kindled in the hearth. Gin had casually tossed his leather duster over the back of a cathedral chair. He turned automatically helping the heir out of his own garment with all the care of an attentive servant. As he slipped the expensive coat from Ed's broad shoulders, he resisted the urge to press his nose to the back of the red heads neck and breath in his scent, or to wrap his arms around Ed's slender waist and hold him against his body to revel in his strength and warmth. Instead he reached up and brushed the last glimmering gems of snow from Ed's fiery hair. _

_ His brother in arms murmured a gentle word of thanks and slightly turned to Gin his green eyes a dark malachite color, dancing with playful shadows and graced him with a half grin. _

_ 'So what you think mah man you like it,'_

_ Gin returned the smile keeping his gaze steady on Ed's face,_

_ 'Yea s'wonderful…s'perfect,'_

_ Whether Ed was aware of the double meaning Gin wasn't certain because he turned away from him moving to stand in front of the mantle. A decanter of bourbon had been placed on a low table between two antique chairs covered with thick velvet. Gin stared at his silhouette a moment admiring Ed's lithe figure._

_ 'Thank you f'comin up here wit me, I'h woulda been bored outta mah fuckin head avin tah deal wit all des rich bitches,'_

_ He ran his hand from the back of his neck up through his hair the movement causing water to flick from the short-cropped strands. It was a gesture that Gin recognized Ed did on the very rare occasions when he was shy or embarrassed. _

_ 'S'no problem Ed…,' _

_They chose to sit before the fire on the expanse of Turkish rug their backs pressed against the plush chairs the etched bottle of bourbon resting between them. It was one of the few times Ed ever talked about his parents, about his life before they had perished. He told Gin wonderful stories about them, of his adoration he had for his late father and the intense loyal love he still had for his mother. There were tears with these words, but not of grief or sorrow. They were tears of warm joy and the light happiness that is only experienced in childhood and dwelled upon with fond affection. _

_Gin had wished, with his immortal, scarred soul that could have had the honor of meeting Ed parent's, wished he could have looked into the eyes of those who had bestowed him the gift of their son. The night wore on and the bourbon steadily lulled them both into a tranquil state. Gin becoming more captivated as the harsh tones in Ed's voice fell away leaving behind a New England accent with a touch of a British tone on the vowels. _

_ In the gloom and glowering flicker of the firelight and in darkest hours of the night they lapsed into a companionable silence. Gin felt sleep hastened by the beckoning fingers of bourbon settle on his shoulders. He felt the redhead stir against his side, and then Ed was kissing him, fiercely and without regard. His fingers digging into Gin's hair with an unrelenting force holding the others head still so that the blond could not draw back. At first Gin was too stunned to move, or even think clearly. All he could focus on was the mouth moving against his and how the red head had somehow managed to straddle his hips so that he was sitting in Gin's lap. The blond remembered that the heir had tasted as he had imagined. Like the golden bronze of sunlight after a howling tempest, wild and free. After a few heated moments the heir drew back panting licking his lips of Gin's taste. He murmured a soft apology _

_ 'I'm sorry…I thought…maybe f'I kissed you…what I was feeling would go away," _

_ Gin remained where he was, Ed's words hardly registering somehow cutting though the lust that curled like a thick fog though his brain. Instead of replying he leaned forward and softly brushed his lips against Ed's. _

_ 'Jus one more…once more an I'll stop," _

_ He felt Ed nod and shift to lean all his weight in Gin's lap and the blond gasped his hips arching up of their own accord his arms winding around Ed's waist. That night didn't end with one kiss but spun on in the fading light of the fire. Two lovers draped in darkness sipping laugher and pleasure from each other, and finally falling asleep in a tangle of limbs on the floor. _


End file.
